The heron-billed pale cattle-birds
That feed on some foul parasite
Of the Moroccan flocks and herds
Cross the narrow Straits to light
In the rich midnight of the garden

GOD guard me from those thoughts
In the mind alone;
He that sings a lasting song
Thinks in a marrow-bone;
From all that makes a wise old man

HIS chosen comrades thought at sc
He must grow a famous man;
He thought the same and lived by r
All his twenties crammed with toil
‘What then?’ sang Plato’s ghost.

PYTHAGORAS planned it. Why d
His numbers, though they moved or
In marble or in bronze, lacked cha
But boys and girls, pale from the
Of solitary beds, knew what they w

BLESSED be this place,
More blessed still this tower;
A bloody, arrogant power
Rose out of the race
Uttering, mastering it,

I whispered, “I am too young,”
And then, “I am old enough”;
Wherefore I threw a penny
To find out if I might love.
“Go and love, go and love, young m

A MOST astonishing thing—
Seventy years have I lived;
(Hurrah for the flowers of Spring
For Spring is here again.)
Seventy years have I lived

When you are old and grey and full
And nodding by the fire, take down
And slowly read, and dream of the
Your eyes had once, and of their s
How many loved your moments of gla

That civilisation may not sink,
Its great battle lost,
Quiet the dog, tether the pony
To a distant post;
Our master Caesar is in the tent

BID a strong ghost stand at the h
That my Michael may sleep sound,
Nor cry, nor turn in the bed
Till his morning meal come round;
And may departing twilight keep