Stone Breaking
March wind rough Clashed the trees, Flung the snow; Breaking stones, In the cold, Germans slow Toiled and toiled; Arrowy sun Glanced and sprang, One right blithe German sang: Songs of home, Fatherland: Syenite
Avis
With a golden rolling sound Booming came a bell, From the aery in the tower Eagles fell; So with regal wings Hurled, and gleaming sound and power, Sprang the fatal spell. Ten a storm
Ode for the Keats Centenary
The Muse is stern unto her favoured sons, Giving to some the keys of all the joy Of the green earth, but holding even that joy Back from their life; Bidding them feed on
Rapids at Night
Here at the roots of the mountains, Between the sombre legions of cedars and tamaracks, The rapids charge the ravine: A little light, cast by foam under starlight, Wavers about the shimmering stems of
The Violet Pressed in a Copy of Shakespeare
Here in the inmost of the master’s heart This violet crisp with early dew Has come to leave her beauty and to part With all her vivid hue. And while in hollow glades and