A Wasted Illness
Through vaults of pain, Enribbed and wrought with groins of ghastliness, I passed, and garish spectres moved my brain To dire distress. And hammerings, And quakes, and shoots, and stifling hotness, blent With webby
Catullus: XXXI
(After passing Sirmione, April 1887.) Sirmio, thou dearest dear of strands That Neptune strokes in lake and sea, With what high joy from stranger lands Doth thy old friend set foot on thee! Yea,
The Subalterns
I “Poor wanderer,” said the leaden sky, “I fain would lighten thee, But there are laws in force on high Which say it must not be.” II “I would not freeze thee, shorn one,”
A Sign-Seeker
I MARK the months in liveries dank and dry, The day-tides many-shaped and hued; I see the nightfall shades subtrude, And hear the monotonous hours clang negligently by. I view the evening bonfires of
The Casterbridge Captains
THREE captains went to Indian wars, And only one returned: Their mate of yore, he singly wore The laurels all had earned. At home he sought the ancient aisle Wherein, untrumped of fame, The
Under The Waterfall
‘Whenever I plunge my arm, like this, In a basin of water, I never miss The sweet sharp sense of a fugitive day Fetched back from its thickening shroud of gray. Hence the only
To A Lady
Offended by a Book of the Writer’s NOW that my page upcloses, doomed, maybe, Never to press thy cosy cushions more, Or wake thy ready Yeas as heretofore, Or stir thy gentle vows of
Night In The Old Home
When the wasting embers redden the chimney-breast, And Life’s bare pathway looms like a desert track to me, And from hall and parlour the living have gone to their rest, My perished people who
The Roman Road
The Roman Road runs straight and bare As the pale parting-line in hair Across the heath. And thoughtful men Contrast its days of Now and Then, And delve, and measure, and compare; Visioning on
Additions
The Fire at Tranter Sweatley’s THEY had long met o’ Zundays her true love and she And at junketings, maypoles, and flings; But she bode wi’ a thirtover uncle, and he Swore by noon
(As sung by Mr. Charles Charrington in the play of "The Three Wayfarers")
(As sung by Mr. Charles Charrington in the play of “The Three Wayfarers”) O MY trade it is the rarest one, Simple shepherds all My trade is a sight to see; For my customers
To Lizbie Browne
I Dear Lizbie Browne, Where are you now? In sun, in rain? – Or is your brow Past joy, past pain, Dear Lizbie Browne? II Sweet Lizbie Browne How you could smile, How you
The Ruined Maid
“O ‘Melia, my dear, this does everything crown! Who could have supposed I should meet you in Town? And whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty? O didn’t you know I’d been ruined?” said she.
Then And Now
When battles were fought With a chivalrous sense of should and ought, In spirit men said, “End we quick or dead, Honour is some reward! Let us fight fair for our own best or
The Pity Of It
I walked in loamy Wessex lanes, afar From rail-track and from highway, and I heard In field and farmstead many an ancient word Of local lineage like “Thu bist,” “Er war,” “Ich woll,” “Er