The Phantom Horsewoman
Queer are the ways of a man I know: He comes and stands In a careworn craze, And looks at the sands And in the seaward haze With moveless hands And face and gaze,
The Dame of Athelhall
I “Soul! Shall I see thy face,” she said, “In one brief hour? And away with thee from a loveless bed To a far-off sun, to a vine-wrapt bower, And be thine own unseparated,
On an Invitation to the United States
I My ardours for emprize nigh lost Since Life has bared its bones to me, I shrink to seek a modern coast Whose riper times have yet to be; Where the new regions claim
De Profundis
I “Percussus sum sicut foenum, et aruit cor meum.” – Ps. ci Wintertime nighs; But my bereavement-pain It cannot bring again: Twice no one dies. Flower-petals flee; But, since it once hath been, No
The House Of Hospitalities
Here we broached the Christmas barrel, Pushed up the charred log-ends; Here we sang the Christmas carol, And called in friends. Time has tired me since we met here When the folk now dead
The Sleep-Worker
When wilt thou wake, O Mother, wake and see – As one who, held in trance, has laboured long By vacant rote and prepossession strong – The coils that thou hast wrought unwittingly; Wherein
Ditty
(E. L. G.) BENEATH a knap where flown Nestlings play, Within walls of weathered stone, Far away From the files of formal houses, By the bough the firstling browses, Lives a Sweet: no merchants
His Immortality
I I saw a dead man’s finer part Shining within each faithful heart Of those bereft. Then said I: “This must be His immortality.” II I looked there as the seasons wore, And still
Revulsion
THOUGH I waste watches framing words to fetter Some spirit to mine own in clasp and kiss, Out of the night there looms a sense ’twere better To fail obtaining whom one fails to
She, To Him IV
THIS love puts all humanity from me; I can but maledict her, pray her dead, For giving love and getting love of thee Feeding a heart that else mine own had fed! How much
The Church-Builder
The church flings forth a battled shade Over the moon-blanched sward: The church; my gift; whereto I paid My all in hand and hoard; Lavished my gains With stintless pains To glorify the Lord.
Song From Heine
I scanned her picture dreaming, Till each dear line and hue Was imaged, to my seeming, As if it lived anew. Her lips began to borrow Their former wondrous smile; Her fair eyes, faint
He Never Expected Much
Well, World, you have kept faith with me, Kept faith with me; Upon the whole you have proved to be Much as you said you were. Since as a child I used to lie
A Man (In Memory of H. of M.)
I In Casterbridge there stood a noble pile, Wrought with pilaster, bay, and balustrade In tactful times when shrewd Eliza swayed. – On burgher, squire, and clown It smiled the long street down for
Doom and She
I There dwells a mighty pair – Slow, statuesque, intense – Amid the vague Immense: None can their chronicle declare, Nor why they be, nor whence. ,h II Mother of all things made, Matchless