The Self-Unseeing
Here is the ancient floor, Footworn and hollowed and thin, Here was the former door Where the dead feet walked in. She sat here in her chair, Smiling into the fire; He who played
Leipzig
“OLD Norbert with the flat blue cap A German said to be Why let your pipe die on your lap, Your eyes blink absently?” “Ah!… Well, I had thought till my cheek was wet
[Greek Title]
Long have I framed weak phantasies of Thee, O Willer masked and dumb! Who makest Life become, – As though by labouring all-unknowingly, Like one whom reveries numb. How much of consciousness informs Thy
The Farm Woman's Winter
I If seasons all were summers, And leaves would never fall, And hopping casement-comers Were foodless not at all, And fragile folk might be here That white winds bid depart; Then one I used
Genoa and the Mediterranean
O epic-famed, god-haunted Central Sea, Heave careless of the deep wrong done to thee When from Torino’s track I saw thy face first flash on me. And multimarbled Genova the Proud, Gleam all unconscious
Moments Of Vision
That mirror Which makes of men a transparency, Who holds that mirror And bids us such a breast-bare spectacle see Of you and me? That mirror Whose magic penetrates like a dart, Who lifts
At Castle Boterel
As I drive to the junction of lane and highway, And the drizzle bedrenches the waggonette, I look behind at the fading byway, And see on its slope, now glistening wet, Distinctly yet Myself
The Going of the Battery Wives. (Lament)
I O it was sad enough, weak enough, mad enough – Light in their loving as soldiers can be – First to risk choosing them, leave alone losing them Now, in far battle, beyond
Song of the Soldier's Wifes
I At last! In sight of home again, Of home again; No more to range and roam again As at that bygone time? No more to go away from us And stay from us?
The Caged Thrush Freed and Home Again (Villanelle)
“Men know but little more than we, Who count us least of things terrene, How happy days are made to be! “Of such strange tidings what think ye, O birds in brown that peck
My Cicely
“ALIVE?” And I leapt in my wonder, Was faint of my joyance, And grasses and grove shone in garments Of glory to me. “She lives, in a plenteous well-being, To-day as aforehand; The dead
A Confession To A Friend In Trouble
Your troubles shrink not, though I feel them less Here, far away, than when I tarried near; I even smile old smiles with listlessness Yet smiles they are, not ghastly mockeries mere. A thought
At the War Office, London
I Last year I called this world of gain-givings The darkest thinkable, and questioned sadly If my own land could heave its pulse less gladly, So charged it seemed with circumstance whence springs The
At An Inn
WHEN we as strangers sought Their catering care, Veiled smiles bespoke their thought Of what we were. They warmed as they opined Us more than friends That we had all resigned For love’s dear
The Last Chrysanthemum
Why should this flower delay so long To show its tremulous plumes? Now is the time of plaintive robin-song, When flowers are in their tombs. Through the slow summer, when the sun Called to