Alfred Austin

Agatha

SHE wanders in the April woods, That glisten with the fallen shower; She leans her face against the buds, She stops, she stoops, she plucks a flower. She feels the ferment of the hour:

The Haymakers' Song

HERE’S to him that grows it, Drink, lads, drink! That lays it in and mows it, Clink, jugs, clink! To him that mows and makes it, That scatters it and shakes it, That turns,

At His Grave

LEAVE me a little while alone, Here at his grave that still is strown With crumbling flower and wreath; The laughing rivulet leaps and falls, The thrush exults, the cuckoo calls, And he lies

Love's Blindness

Now do I know that Love is blind, for I Can see no beauty on this beauteous earth, No life, no light, no hopefulness, no mirth, Pleasure nor purpose, when thou art not nigh.