Earnest, earthless, equal, attunea… Evening strains to be tíme’s vást,… Her fond yellow hornlight wound to… Waste; her earliest stars, earl—st… Fíre—féaturing heaven. For earth…
Hark, hearer, hear what I do; len… We are leafwhelmed somewhere with… Of some branchy bunchy bushybowere… Southern dene or Lancashire cloug… That leans along the loins of hill…
To what serves mortal beauty ‘ —da… ing blood—the O—seal—that—so ’ fea… Than Purcell tune lets tread to?… Men’s wits to the things that are;… Master more may than gaze, ’ gaze…
Earth, sweet Earth, sweet landsca… And louchéd low grass, heaven that… To, with no tongue to plead, no he… That canst but only be, but dost t… Thou canst but be, but that thou w…
Moonless darkness stands between. Past, the Past, no more be seen! But the Bethlehem—star may lead m… To the sight of Him Who freed me From the self that I have been.
Tom—garlanded with squat and surly… Tom; then Tom’s fallowbootfellow… By him and rips out rockfire homef… Tom Heart—at—ease, Tom Navvy: he… Sure, ’s bed now. Low be it: lust…
THE LEADEN ECHO HOW to kéep—is there ány any, is… Back beauty, keep it, beauty, beau… Ó is there no frowning of these wr… Dówn? no waving off of these most…
Justus quidem tu es, Domine, si d… verumtamen justa loquar ad te: Quare via impiorum prosperatur? &c… Thou art indeed just, Lord, if I… With thee; but, sir, so what I pl…
The fine delight that fathers thou… Spur, live and lancing like the bl… Breathes once and, quenchèd faster… Leaves yet the mind a mother of im… Nine months she then, nay years, n…
Not of all my eyes see, wandering… Is anything a milk to the mind so,… Poetry to it, as a tree whose boug… Say it is ashboughs: whether on a… Fast ór they in clammyish lashtend…
My aspens dear, whose airy cages q… Quelled or quenched in leaves the… All felled, felled, are all felled… Of a fresh and following folded ra… Not spared, not one
Thou art indeed just, Lord, if I… With thee; but, sir, so what I pl… Why do sinners’ ways prosper? and… Disappointment all I endeavour en… Wert thou my enemy, O thou my fri…
Though no high—hung bells or din Of braggart bugles cry it in— What is sound? Nature’s round Makes the Silver Jubilee. Five and twenty years have run
I bear a basket lined with grass; I am so light, I am so fair, That men must wonder as I pass And at the basket that I bear, Where in a newly—drawn green litte…
I caught this morning morning’s mi… dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple—… Of the rolling level underneath hi… High there, how he rung upon the r… In his ecstasy! then off, off fort…