We looked, we loved, and therewith… Death became terrible to you and m… By love we disenthralled our natur… From every comfortable philosopher Or tall, grey doctor of divinity:
On her shut lids the lightning fli… Thunder explodes above her bed, An inch from her lax arm the rain… Discrete she lies, Not dead but entranced, dreamlessl…
As Jane walked out below the hill… She saw an old man standing still, His eyes in tranced sorrow bound On the broad stretch of barren gro… His limbs were knarled like aged t…
Near Clapham village, where field… Saint Edward met a beggar man. It was Christmas morning, the chu… The old man trembled for the fierc… Saint Edward cried, “It is monstr…
Why do you break upon this old, co… This painted peace of ours, With harsh dress hissing like a fl… With garish flowers? Why do you churn smooth waters rou…
Old Mr. Philosopher Comes for Ben and Claire, An ugly man, a tall man, With bright—red hair. The books that he’s written
An ancient saga tells us how In the beginning the First Cow (For nothing living yet had birth But Elemental Cow on earth) Began to lick cold stones and mud:
Under your Milky Way And slow—revolving Bear Frogs from the alder thicket pray In terror of your judgement day, Loud with repentance there.
Through long nursery nights he sto… By my bed unwearying, Loomed gigantic, formless, queer, Purring in my haunted ear That same hideous nightmare thing,
“Is that the Three—and—Twentieth,… Marching below, and we still gulpi… From the sad magic of his fragrant… The red—faced old centurion starte… Cursed, battered on the table. “N…
Love, do not count your labour los… Though I turn sullen, grim, retir… Even at your side; my thought is c… With fancies by old longings fired… And when I answer you, some days
Cronos the Ruddy, steer your boat Toward Silver Island whence we si… Here you shall pass your days. Through a thick—growing alder—wood We clearly see, but are not seen,
‘Come, surly fellow, come! A song… What, madmen? Sing to you? Choose from the clouded tales of w… And terror I bring to you. Of a night so torn with cries,
Kill if you must, but never hate: Man is but grass and hate is bligh… The sun will scorch you soon or la… Die wholesome then, since you must… Hate is a fear, and fear is rot
he child alone a poet is: Spring and Fairyland are his. Truth and Reason show but dim, And all’s poetry with him. Rhyme and music flow in plenty