When I Set Out For Lyonnesse
When I set out for Lyonnesse, A hundred miles away, The rime was on the spray, And starlight lit my lonesomeness When I set out for Lyonnesse A hundred miles away. What would bechance
The Ivy-Wife
I LONGED to love a full-boughed beech And be as high as he: I stretched an arm within his reach, And signalled unity. But with his drip he forced a breach, And tried to
Departure
While the far farewell music thins and fails, And the broad bottoms rip the bearing brine – All smalling slowly to the gray sea line – And each significant red smoke-shaft pales, Keen sense
The Dance At The Phoenix
To Jenny came a gentle youth From inland leazes lone; His love was fresh as apple-blooth By Parrett, Yeo, or Tone. And duly he entreated her To be his tender minister, And call him
The Alarm
In Memory of one of the Writer’s Family who was a Volunteer during the War With Napoleon In a ferny byway Near the great South-Wessex Highway, A homestead raised its breakfast-smoke aloft; The dew-damps
Sapphic Fragment
“Thou shalt be Nothing.” Omar Khayyam. “Tombless, with no remembrance.” W. Shakespeare. Dead shalt thou lie; and nought Be told of thee or thought, For thou hast plucked not of the Muses’ tree: And
The Respectable Burgher on "The Higher Criticism"
Since Reverend Doctors now declare That clerks and people must prepare To doubt if Adam ever were; To hold the flood a local scare; To argue, though the stolid stare, That everything had happened
The Ghost Of The Past
We two kept house, the Past and I, The Past and I; I tended while it hovered nigh, Leaving me never alone. It was a spectral housekeeping Where fell no jarring tone, As strange,
At a Lunar Eclipse
Thy shadow, Earth, from Pole to Central Sea, Now steals along upon the Moon’s meek shine In even monochrome and curving line Of imperturbable serenity. How shall I link such sun-cast symmetry With the
Midnight On The Great Western
In the third-class seat sat the journeying boy, And the roof-lamp’s oily flame Played down on his listless form and face, Bewrapt past knowing to what he was going, Or whence he came. In
The Oxen
Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock. “Now they are all on their knees,” An elder said as we sat in a flock By the embers in hearthside ease. We pictured the meek mild
Weathers
This is the weather the cuckoo likes, And so do I; When showers betumble the chestnut spikes, And nestlings fly; And the little brown nightingale bills his best, And they sit outside at ‘The
I Have Lived With Shades
I I have lived with Shades so long, So long have talked to them, I sped to street and throng, That sometimes they In their dim style Will pause awhile To hear my say;
A Commonplace Day
The day is turning ghost, And scuttles from the kalendar in fits and furtively, To join the anonymous host Of those that throng oblivion; ceding his place, maybe, To one of like degree. I
In Tenebris
Wintertime nighs; But my bereavement-pain It cannot bring again: Twice no one dies. Flower-petals flee; But since it once hath been, No more that severing scene Can harrow me. Birds faint in dread: I