The Boy And the Angel
Morning, evening, noon and night, ”Praise God!; sang Theocrite. Then to his poor trade he turned, Whereby the daily meal was earned. Hard he laboured, long and well; O’er his work the boy’s curls
Childe Roland To The Dark Tower Came
I. My first thought was, he lied in every word, That hoary cripple, with malicious eye Askance to watch the working of his lie On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford Suppression of
Old Pictures In Florence
I. The morn when first it thunders in March, The eel in the pond gives a leap, they say: As I leaned and looked over the aloed arch Of the villa-gate this warm March
Cristina
I. She should never have looked at me If she meant I should not love her! There are plenty… men, you call such, I suppose… she may discover All her soul to, if she
A Serenade At The Villa
I. That was I, you heard last night, When there rose no moon at all, Nor, to pierce the strained and tight Tent of heaven, a planet small: Life was dead and so was
Never The Time And The Place
Never the time and the place And the loved one all together! This path how soft to pace! This May what magic weather! Where is the loved one’s face? In a dream that loved
A Toccata Of Galuppi's
I Oh Galuppi, Baldassaro, this is very sad to find! I can hardly misconceive you; it would prove me deaf and blind; But although I give you credit, ’tis with such a heavy mind!
Dtatue And The Bust, The
There’s a palace in Florence, the world knows well, And a statue watches it from the square, And this story of both do our townsmen tell. Ages ago, a lady there, At the farthest
Bishop Blougram's Apology
NO more wine? then we’ll push back chairs and talk. A final glass for me, though: cool, i’ faith! We ought to have our Abbey back, you see. It’s different, preaching in basilicas, And
The Twins
Give” and ”It-shall-be-given-unto-you.” I. Grand rough old Martin Luther Bloomed fables – flowers on furze, The better the uncouther: Do roses stick like burrs? II. A beggar asked an alms One day at an
Soliloquy Of The Spanish Cloister
I. Gr-r-r – there go, my heart’s abhorrence! Water your damned flower-pots, do! If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence, God’s blood, would not mine kill you! What? your myrtle-bush wants trimming? Oh, that rose
One Way Of Love
All June I bound the rose in sheaves. Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves And strew them where Pauline may pass. She will not turn aside? Alas! Let them lie. Suppose they
Saul
I. Said Abner, ”At last thou art come! Ere I tell, ere thou speak, ”Kiss my cheek, wish me well!” Then I wished it, and did kiss his cheek. And he, ”Since the King,
Verse-Making Was Least of My Virtues
Verse-making was least of my virtues: I viewed with despair Wealth that never yet was but might be all that verse-making were If the life would but lengthen to wish, let the mind be
Love Among The Ruins
I Where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles Miles and miles On the solitary pastures where our sheep Half-asleep Tinkle homeward thro’ the twilight, stray or stop As they crop – Was the site