On the Night of a Friend's Wedding
If ever I am old, and all alone, I shall have killed one grief, at any rate; For then, thank God, I shall not have to wait Much longer for the sheaves that I
Verlaine
Why do you dig like long-clawed scavengers To touch the covered corpse of him that fled The uplands for the fens, and rioted Like a sick satyr with doom’s worshippers? Come! let the grass
Aaron Stark
Withal a meagre man was Aaron Stark, Cursed and unkempt, shrewd, shrivelled, and morose. A miser was he, with a miser’s nose, And eyes like little dollars in the dark. His thin, pinched mouth
The Clerks
I did not think that I should find them there When I came back again; but there they stood, As in the days they dreamed of when young blood Was in their cheeks and
Horace to Leuconoë
I pray you not, Leuconoë, to pore With unpermitted eyes on what may be Appointed by the gods for you and me, Nor on Chaldean figures any more. ‘T were infinitely better to implore
Bokardo
Well, Bokardo, here we are; Make yourself at home. Look around-you haven’t far To look-and why be dumb? Not the place that used to be, Not so many things to see; But there’s room
For Ariva
You Eyes, you large and all-inquiring Eyes. That look so dubiously into me, And are not satisfied with what you see, Tell me the worst and let us have no lies: Tell me the
The Field of Glory
War shook the land where Levi dwelt, And fired the dismal wrath he felt, That such a doom was ever wrought As his, to toil while others fought; To toil, to dream and still
As a World Would Have It
Shall I never make him look at me again? I look at him, I look my life at him, I tell him all I know the way to tell, But there he stays the
Lingard and the Stars
The table hurled itself, to our surprise, At Lingard, and anon rapped eagerly: “When earth is cold and there is no more sea, There will be what was Lingard. Otherwise, Why lure the race
The Valley of the Shadow
There were faces to remember in the Valley of the Shadow, There were faces unregarded, there were faces to forget; There were fires of grief and fear that are a few forgotten ashes, There
The Long Race
Up the old hill to the old house again Where fifty years ago the friend was young Who should be waiting somewhere there among Old things that least remembered most remain, He toiled on
Reuben Bright
Because he was a butcher and thereby Did earn an honest living (and did right), I would not have you think that Reuben Bright Was any more a brute than you or I; For
The Unforgiven
When he, who is the unforgiven, Beheld her first, he found her fair: No promise ever dreamt in heaven Could have lured him anywhere That would have nbeen away from there; And all his
The Burning Book
OR THE CONTENTED METAPHYSICIAN TO the lore of no manner of men Would his vision have yielded When he found what will never again From his vision be shielded,- Though he paid with as