On the Disastrous Spread of Aestheticism in all Classes
Impetuously I sprang from bed, Long before lunch was up, That I might drain the dizzy dew From the day’s first golden cup. In swift devouring ecstasy Each toil in turn was done; I
The Latest School
See the flying French depart Like the bees of Bonaparte, Swarming up with a most venomous vitality. Over Baden and Bavaria, And Brighton and Bulgaria, Thus violating Belgian neutrality. And the injured Prussian may
The Black Virgin
One in thy thousand statues we salute thee On all thy thousand thrones acclaim and claim Who walk in forest of thy forms and faces Walk in a forest calling on one name And,
The House of Christmas
There fared a mother driven forth Out of an inn to roam; In the place where she was homeless All men are at home. The crazy stable close at hand, With shaking timber and
A Song of Defeat
The line breaks and the guns go under, The lords and the lackeys ride the plain; I draw deep breaths of the dawn and thunder, And the whole of my heart grows young again.
The Strange Music
Other loves may sink and settle, other loves may loose and slack, But I wander like a minstrel with a harp upon his back, Though the harp be on my bosom, though I finger
The Human Tree
Many have Earth’s lovers been, Tried in seas and wars, I ween; Yet the mightiest have I seen: Yea, the best saw I. One that in a field alone Stood up stiller than a
The Secret People
Smile at us, pay us, pass us; but do not quite forget; For we are the people of England, that never have spoken yet. There is many a fat farmer that drinks less cheerfully,
Variations of an Air
Old King Cole Was a merry old soul And a merry old soul was he He called for his pipe And he called for his bowl And he called for his fiddlers three After
Elegy In A Country Churchyard
The men that worked for England They have their graves at home: And bees and birds of England About the cross can roam. But they that fought for England, Following a falling star, Alas,
The Sword of Suprise
Sunder me from my bones, O sword of God Till they stand stark and strange as do the trees; That I whose heart goes up with the soaring woods May marvel as much at
The Song Of The Strange Ascetic
If I had been a Heathen, I’d have praised the purple vine, My slaves should dig the vineyards, And I would drink the wine. But Higgins is a Heathen, And his slaves grow lean
Eternities
I cannot count the pebbles in the brook. Well hath He spoken: “Swear not by thy head. Thou knowest not the hairs,” though He, we read, Writes that wild number in His own strange
Gold Leaves
Lo! I am come to autumn, When all the leaves are gold; Grey hairs and golden leaves cry out The year and I are old. In youth I sought the prince of men, Captain
The Englishman
St George he was for England, And before he killed the dragon He drank a pint of English ale Out of an English flagon. For though he fast right readily In hair-shirt or in