To E
The mountains in fantastic lines Sweep, blue-white, to the sky, which shines Blue as blue gems; athwart the pines The lake gleams blue. We three were here, three years gone by; Our Poet, with
A Wall Flower
I lounge in the doorway and languish in vain While Tom, Dick and Harry are dancing with Jane My spirit rises to the music’s beat; There is a leaden fiend lurks in my feet!
The Last Judgment
With beating heart and lagging feet, Lord, I approach the Judgment-seat. All bring hither the fruits of toil, Measures of wheat and measures of oil; Gold and jewels and precious wine; No hands bare
The Old House
In through the porch and up the silent stair; Little is changed, I know so well the ways; Here, the dead came to meet me; it was there The dream was dreamed in unforgotten
In the Night
Cruel? I think there never was a cheating More cruel, thro’ all the weary days than this! This is no dream, my heart kept on repeating, But sober certainty of waking bliss. Dreams? O,
The Sick Man and the Nightingale
(From Lenau.) So late, and yet a nightingale? Long since have dropp’d the blossoms pale, The summer fields are ripening, And yet a sound of spring? O tell me, didst thou come to hear,
A Cross-Road Epitaph
“Am Kreuzweg wird begraben Wer selber brachte sich um.” When first the world grew dark to me I call’d on God, yet came not he. Whereon, as wearier wax’d my lot, On Love I
The Village Garden
To E. M. S. Here, where your garden fenced about and still is, Here, where the unmoved summer air is sweet With mixed delight of lavender and lilies, Dreaming I linger in the noontide
The Birch-Tree at Loschwitz
At Loschwitz above the city The air is sunny and chill; The birch-trees and the pine-trees Grow thick upon the hill. Lone and tall, with silver stem, A birch-tree stands apart; The passionate wind
A Reminiscence
It is so long gone by, and yet How clearly now I see it all! The glimmer of your cigarette, The little chamber, narrow and tall. Perseus; your picture in its frame; (How near
London in July
What ails my senses thus to cheat? What is it ails the place, That all the people in the street Should wear one woman’s face? The London trees are dusty-brown Beneath the summer sky;
A June-Tide Echo
(After a Richter Concert.) In the long, sad time, when the sky was grey, And the keen blast blew through the city drear, When delight had fled from the night and the day, My
Last Words
Dead! all’s done with! R. Browning. These blossoms that I bring, This song that here I sing, These tears that now I shed, I give unto the dead. There is no more to be
Ballade of a Special Edition
He comes; I hear him up the street Bird of ill omen, flapping wide The pinion of a printed sheet, His hoarse note scares the eventide. Of slaughter, theft, and suicide He is the
A Minor Poet
“What should such fellows as I do, Crawling between earth and heaven?” Here is the phial; here I turn the key Sharp in the lock. Click! there’s no doubt it turned. This is the