Once in a dream I saw the flowers That bud and bloom in Paradise; More fair they are than waking eye… Have seen in all this world of our… And faint the perfume—bearing rose…
Why did baby die, Making Father sigh, Mother cry? Flowers, that bloom to die, Make no reply
‘Kookoorookoo! kookoorookoo!’ Crows the cock before the morn; ‘Kikirikee! kikirikee!’ Roses in the east are born. ‘Kookoorookoo! kookoorookoo!’
There’s blood between us, love, my… There’s father’s blood, there’s br… And blood’s a bar I cannot pass. I choose the stairs that mount abo… Stair after golden sky—ward stair,
By day she woos me, soft, exceedin… But all night as the moon so chang… Loathsome and foul with hideous le… And subtle serpents gliding in her… By day she woos me to the outer ai…
If I might see another Spring I’d not plant summer flowers and w… I’d have my crocuses at once My leafless pink mezereons, My chill—veined snow—drops, choice…
DOES the road wind uphill all th… Yes, to the very end. Will the day’s journey take the wh… From morn to night, my friend. But is there for the night a resti…
Hear now a curious dream I dreame… Each word whereof is weighed and s… I stood beside Euphrates while it… Like overflowing Jordan in its yo… It waxed and coloured sensibly to…
None other Lamb, none other Name, None other hope in Heav’n or eart… None other hiding place from guilt… None beside Thee! My faith burns low, my hope burns…
Before the winter morn, Before the earliest cock crow, Jesus Christ was born: Born in a stable, Cradled in a manger,
Oh the cheerful Budding—time! When thorn—hedges turn to green, When new leaves of elm and lime Cleave and shed their winter scree… Tender lambs are born and ‘baa,’
Winter is cold—hearted Spring is yea and nay, Autumn is a weather—cock Blown every way: Summer days for me
I sat beneath a willow tree, Where water falls and calls; While fancies upon fancies solaced… Some true, and some were false. Who set their heart upon a hope
Life is not sweet. One day it wil… To shut our eyes and die: Nor feel the wild flowers blow, no… With flitting butterfly, Nor grass grow long above our head…
I cannot tell you how it was, But this I know: it came to pass Upon a bright and sunny day When May was young; ah, pleasant… As yet the poppies were not born