We told of him as one who should have soared And seen for us the devastating light Whereof there is not either day or night, And shared with us the glamour of the Word

Dark hills at evening in the west, Where sunset hovers like a sound Of golden horns that sang to rest Old bones of warriors under ground, Far now from all the bannered ways Where

Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn, Grew lean while he assailed the seasons; He wept that he was ever born, And he had reasons. Miniver loved the days of old When swords were bright and

Before there was in Egypt any sound Of those who reared a more prodigious means For the self-heavy sleep of kings and queens Than hitherto had mocked the most renowned,- Unvisioned here and waiting

The master-songs are ended, and the man That sang them is a name. And so is God A name; and so is love, and life, and death, And everything. But we, who are too

The miller’s wife had waited long, The tea was cold, the fire was dead; And there might yet be nothing wrong In how he went and what he said: “There are no millers any

(AMSTERDAM, 1645) And there you are again, now as you are. Observe yourself as you discern yourself In your discredited ascendency; Without your velvet or your feathers now, Commend your new condition to your

They are all gone away, The House is shut and still, There is nothing more to say. Through broken walls and gray The winds blow bleak and shrill: They are all gone away. Nor

Let him answer as he will, Or be lightsome as he may, Now nor after shall he say Worn-out words enough to kill, Or to lull down by their craft, Doubt, that was born

Here there is death. But even here, they say, Here where the dull sun shines this afternoon As desolate as ever the dead moon Did glimmer on dead Sardis, men were gay; And there

Though for your sake I would not have you now So near to me tonight as now you are, God knows how much a stranger to my heart Was any cold word that I

Friendless and faint, with martyred steps and slow, Faint for the flesh, but for the spirit free, Stung by the mob that came to see the show, The Master toiled along to Calvary; We

Between me and the sunset, like a dome Against the glory of a world on fire, Now burned a sudden hill, Bleak, round, and high, by flame-lit height made higher, With nothing on it

And there we were together again – Together again, we three: Morgan, Fingal, fiddle, and all, They had come for the night with me. The spirit of joy was in Morgan’s wrist, There were

“Gawaine, Gawaine, what look ye for to see, So far beyond the faint edge of the world? D’ye look to see the lady Vivian, Pursued by divers ominous vile demons That have another king

(WASHINGTON SQUARE) I met him, as one meets a ghost or two, Between the gray Arch and the old Hotel. “King Solomon was right, there’s nothing new,” Said he. “Behold a ruin who meant

Unyielding in the pride of his defiance, Afloat with none to serve or to command, Lord of himself at last, and all by Science, He seeks the Vanished Land. Alone, by the one light

Child of a line accurst And old as Troy, Bringer of best and worst In wild alloy – Light, like a linnet first, He sang for joy. Thrall to the gilded ease Of every

(ALCAICS) Confused, he found her lavishing feminine Gold upon clay, and found her inscrutable; And yet she smiled. Why, then, should horrors Be as they were, without end, her playthings? And why were dead

I found a torrent falling in a glen Where the sun’s light shone silvered and leaf-split; The boom, the foam, and the mad flash of it All made a magic symphony; but when I

Think not, because I wonder where you fled, That I would lift a pin to see you there; You may, for me, be prowling anywhere, So long as you show not your little head:

Observant of the way she told So much of what was true, No vanity could long withhold Regard that was her due: She spared him the familiar guide, So easily achieved, That only made

I We thrill too strangely at the master’s touch; We shrink too sadly from the larger self Which for its own completeness agitates And undetermines us; we do not feel We dare not feel

Nothing will hold him longer-let him go; Let him go down where others have gone down; Little he cares whether we smile or frown, Or if we know, or if we think we know.

Here was a place where none would ever come For shelter, save as we did from the rain. We saw no ghost, yet once outside again Each wondered why the other should be so

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Be calm? And was I frantic? You’ll have me laughing soon. I’m calm as this Atlantic, And quiet as the moon; I may have spoken faster Than once, in other days; For I’ve no

By what serene malevolence of names Had you the gift of yours, Theophilus? Not even a smeared young Cyclops at his games Would have you long,-and you are one of us. Told of your

When in from Delos came the gold That held the dream of Pericles, When first Athenian ears were told The tumult of Euripides, When men met Aristophanes, Who fledged them with immortal quills –

They have made for Leonora this low dwelling in the ground, And with cedar they have woven the four walls round. Like a little dryad hiding she’ll be wrapped all in green, Better kept

When he protested, not too solemnly, That for a world’s achieving maintenance The crust of overdone divinity Lacked aliment, they called it recreance; And when he chose through his own glass to scan Sick

I All you that are enamored of my name And least intent on what most I require, Beware; for my design and your desire, Deplorably, are not as yet the same. Beware, I say,