| Across what calm of tropic seas |
| A few long-hoarded pennies in his hand |
| A flock of winds came winging from the North |
| Ah, Manon, say, why is it we |
| Ah! no, not these! |
| A gift of Silence, sweet! |
| A gleam of light across the night |
| A little while to walk with thee, dear child |
| All day I serve among the volumes telling |
| All my stars forsake me |
| All our best ye have branded |
| All that a man may pray |
| All that I had I brought |
| All the moon-shed nights are over |
| Along the graceless grass of town |
| All night had shout of men and cry |
| A mirror faced a mirror: ire and hate |
| And will they cast the altars down |
| An iron hand has stilled the throats |
| Another day awakes. And who |
| A poet of one mood in all my lays |
| April with her violets |
| “A riddling world!” one cried |
| Around were all the roses red |
| As blazes forth through clouds the morning sun |
| A song of the setting sun! |
| As the full moon shining there |
| As the inhastening tide doth roll |
| As, when the seaward ebbing tide doth pour |
| At the foot of the Cross on Calvary |
| Autumn is weary, halt, and old |
| A voice peals in this end of night |
| A while we wandered (thus it is I dream!) |
| |
| Because I am idolatrous and have besought |
| Because I used to shun |
| Because the road was steep and long |
| Because we share our sorrows and our joys |
| Before my light goes out for ever if God... |
| Behold |
| Before the glory of your love |
| Behold! a white Hawk tangled in a twisted net of dreams |
| Beside the golden gate there grows a tree |
| Beyond the need of weeping |
| Beyond the pale of memory |
| Black mountains pricked with pointed pine |
| Brief, on a flying night |
| Bright stars, yellow stars, flashing through the air |
| By the pale marge of Acheron |
| By the sad waters of separation |
| |
| Calm, sad, secure; behind high convent walls |
| Cease smiling, Dear! a little while be sad |
| The cherry-coloured velvet of your cloak |
| Come hither, Child! and rest |
| Come not before me now, 0 visionary face! |
| Crowns and imperial purple, thrones of gold |
| |
| Dear are some hidden things |
| Dear fool, be true to me! |
| Dear laws, come to my breast! |
| Dew on her robe and on her tangled hair |
| Dreams fade with morning light |
| |
| Erewhile, before the world was old |
| Even now the fragrant darkness of her hair |
| Exceeding sorrow |
| |
| Fair Death, kind Death, it was a gracious deed |
| Farewell has long been said; I have foregone thee |
| “Farewells!” O what a word! |
| Farewell to one now silenced quite |
| The fire is out, and spent the warmth thereof |
| For blows on the fort of evil |
| Forth, to the alien gravity |
| From dawn to dusk, and from dusk to dawn |
| From what old ballad, or from what rich frame |
| |
| Gaunt windy moons bedraggled in the dusk |
| Given, not lent |
| Goddess the laughter-loving, Aphrodite, befriend! |
| |
| “Hail Mary, full of grace,” the Angel saith |
| Here are my thoughts, alive within this fold |
| Here, where the breath of the scented-gorse floats... |
| Her hair’s the canopy of heaven |
| Her lips’ remark was: “Oh, you kid!” |
| He was an evil thing to see |
| He who walks through the meadows of Champagne |
| His mind has neither need nor power to know |
| Home, home from the horizon far and clear |
| Homer, they tell us, was blind and could not see the beautifulfaces |
| |
| I am a wave of the sea |
| I am the Seer: for in you I see |
| I come from nothing; but from where |
| I do not know how you can shun |
| I dreamt (no “dream” awake—a dream indeed) |
| I felt within my heart awake and glow |
| If I have you then I have everything |
| If I should live in a forest |
| If I should need to tear aside |
| If I should quit thee, sacrifice, forswear |
| If it should be my task, I being God |
| If the dread all-seeing stars |
| If we must part |
| I go by road, I go by street |
| I had not seen my son’s dear face |
| I like to look at the blossomy track of the moon upon the sea |
| I loose the secrets of my soul |
| I love you with my every breath |
| I’m home from off the stormy sea |
| I must not think of thee; and, tired yet strong |
| In alien earth, across a troubled sea |
| In a wood they call the Rouge Bouquet |
| In the deep violet air |
| Into the rescued world newcomer |
| In your mother’s apple-orchard |
| I said: “There is an end of my desire |
| I saw a tract of ocean locked inland |
| I saw the Sun at midnight, rising red |
| I saw the throng, so deeply separate |
| I see his blood upon the rose |
| I sit and beg beside the gate |
| I sleep beneath a bracken sheet |
| I take my leave, with sorrow, of Him I love so well |
| I think that I shall never see |
| It knows but will not tell |
| It is not good for poets to grow old |
| I thought I’d never hear your tongue |
| I took her dainty eyes, as well |
| I touched the heart that loved me as a player |
| I try to blame |
| It was the south: mid-everything |
| I’ve watched with Death a dreadful year |
| I was always a lover of ladies’ hands! |
| I was not sorrowful, I could not weep |
| I went to gather roses and twine them in a ring |
| I watched the glory of her childhood change |
| I would not alter thy cold eyes |
| Into the lonely park all frozen fast |
| I seek no more to bridge the gulf that lies |
| |
| Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine |
| Led by a star, a golden star |
| Let be at last; give over words and sighing |
| Let us go hence: the night is now at hand |
| Like him who met his own eyes in the river |
| Listen, and when thy hand this paper presses |
| Little lady of my heart! |
| “A little, passionately, not at all?” |
| Little white bird of the summer sky |
| Longer than thine, than thine |
| Long life to thee, long virtue, long delight |
| Lord, Thou hast crushed Thy tender ones, o’er-thrown |
| Lord, where are Thy prerogatives? |
| Love heeds no more the sighing of the wind |
| Love’s aftermath! I think the time is now |
| Love wine and beauty and the spring |
| Luminous passions reign |
| |
| Man pays that debt with new munificence |
| Many laughing ladies, leisurely and wise |
| Mark the day white, on which the Fates have smiled |
| Master, thy enterprise |
| Monsignore |
| My Fair, no beauty of thine will last |
| My heart shall be thy garden. Come, my own |
| My lady has the grace of Death |
| My soul is sick with longing, shaken with loss |
| |
| Neobule, being tired |
| Never a horn sounds in Sherwood to-night |
| No “fan is in his hand” for these |
| No flower hath so fair a face as this pale love of mine |
| No hungry star ascendant at my birth |
| No longer of Him be it said |
| No new delights to our desire |
| No sudden thing of glory and fear |
| Not on the lute, or harp of many strings |
| Not, Silence, for thine idleness I raise |
| Not that the earth is changing, O my God! |
| Not wish, nor fear, nor quite expectancy |
| Not yet was winter come to earth’s soft floor |
| Now a gentle dusk shall fall |
| Now by what whim of wanton chance |
| Now is the rhymer’s honest trade |
| My hands were stained with blood, my heart was proud and cold |
| My shoulders ache beneath my pack |
| Night is over; through the clover globes of crystal shine |
| |
| O Bright! thy stateliness and grace |
| O Covenant! O Temple! O frail pride |
| O delicate! Even in wooded lands |
| O’er the Campagna it is dim warm weather |
| O heavenly colour, London town |
| Oh, I would live in a dairy |
| Oh, man’s capacity |
| Oh, not more subtly silence strays |
| Oh, what a kiss |
| O lovely heart! O Love |
| One of the crowd went up |
| One wept whose only child was dead |
| One winter night a Devil came and sat upon my bed |
| On London fell a clearer light |
| On nights like this the huddled sheep |
| O our young ancestor |
| O poet of the time to be |
| O spring, I know thee! Seek for sweet surprise |
| Our father works in us |
| Our lips can only stammer, yet we chant |
| O what a miracle wind is this |
| |
| Pale amber sunlight falls across |
| |
| Quiet form of silent nun |
| |
| Rich meanings of the prophet-Spring adorn |
| Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone |
| Rougher than Death the road I choose |
| |
| See how the trees and the osiers lithe |
| See the crocus’ golden cup |
| Serene and beautiful and very wise |
| Serene he stands, with mist serenely crowned |
| Severe against the pleasant arc of sky |
| Shall one be sorrowful because of love |
| She sings, but we are silent: when shall Spring |
| She walks the azure meadows where the stars |
| She walks—the lady of my delight |
| Sing all ye mouths of music, sing her praise |
| Sleep on, dear, now |
| Slight as thou art, thou art enough to hide |
| Slender your hands and soft and white |
| So humble things Thou hast borne for us, O God |
| Sometimes, to solace my sad heart, I say |
| Squire Adam had two wives, they say |
| Strange grows the river on the sunless evenings! |
| |
| Tears fall within mine heart |
| That seeking Prelude found its unforetold |
| The air is like a butterfly |
| The boom and blare of the big brass band is cheering to my heart |
| The bread is mine |
| The bugle echoes shrill and sweet |
| The child not yet is lulled to rest |
| The claim that has the canker on the rose |
| The day I knew you loved me we had lain |
| The drunken stars stagger across the sky |
| Thee, Christ, I sought to sell all day |
| The fragile splendour of the level sea |
| The garden of God is a radiant place |
| The glories of the world sink down in gloom |
| The halls that were loud with the merry tread of young and careless feet |
| The Judge’s house has a splendid porch, with pillars and steps of stone |
| The Kings of the earth are men of might |
| The Lady Poverty was fair |
| The Lady World |
| The leaves are many under my feet |
| The light young man who was to die |
| The lonely farm, the crowded street |
| The paralytic man has dropped in death |
| The pleasant turf is dried and marred and seared |
| The poet’s imageries are noble ways |
| The powerful words that from my heart |
| There is a bolder way |
| There is a wall of flesh before the eyes |
| There is no deed I would not dare |
| There is no length of days |
| There’s a brook on the side of Greylock that used to be full of trout |
| There’s a feast, undated, yet |
| There’s much afoot in heaven and earth this year |
| There was a gentle hostler |
| There was a little maiden |
| There was a murkier tinge in London’s air |
| The road is wide and the stars are out and the breath of the night is sweet |
| The roar of the world is in my ears |
| The rooted liberty of flowers in breeze |
| These words that may not reach your heart |
| The sky is up above the roof |
| The Sixty-ninth is on its way—France heard it long ago |
| The stars sang in God’s garden |
| The Way of Love |
| The wind is blind |
| The wisdom of the world said unto me |
| They are not long, the weeping and the laughter |
| They say I sing in secrets—they have ears |
| They sleep well here |
| There comes an end to summer |
| The wind rose, the sea rose |
| The worm is clad in plated mail |
| This heritage to the race of kings |
| Thou art the Way |
| Thou inmost, ultimate |
| Thou man, first-comer, whose wide arms entreat |
| Thou who singest through the earth |
| Thou wouldst not part thy spoil |
| Three times have I beheld |
| Through the green boughs I hardly saw thy face |
| Through what long heaviness, assayed in what strange fire |
| ’Tis royal and authentic June |
| To-day when I beheld you all alone |
| To her accustomed eyes |
| To his devoted heart |
| Two men went up to pray; and one gave thanks |
| |
| Underneath the orchard trees lies a gypsy sleeping |
| Unlike the youth that all men say |
| Upon his will he binds a radiant chain |
| Upon the eyes, the lips, the feet |
| |
| Vain is the chiming of forgotten bells |
| Violets and leaves of vine |
| Virgil stayed Dante with a wayside word |
| |
| We have walked in Love’s land a little way |
| We who beg for bread as we daily tread |
| What distant mountains thrill and glow |
| What have I dared to claim |
| What land of Silence |
| When all the stars become a memory |
| When Dawn strides out to wake a dewy farm |
| Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track |
| When I am dead let not your murderous tears |
| When I am old |
| When I am tired of earnest men |
| When on a novel’s newly printed page |
| When this, our rose, is faded |
| When you had played with life a space |
| When you shall die and to the sky |
| Where river and ocean meet in a great tempestuous frown |
| Where two roads cross by Chevely town |
| With delicate, mad hands, behind his sordid bars |
| With drooping sail and pennant |
| Within the broken Vatican |
| Within the Jersey City shed |
| Without, the sullen noises of the street! |
| With this ambiguous earth |
| We build with strength the deep tower wall |
| We do not find Him on the difficult earth |
| We never meet; yet we meet day by day |
| We too (one cried), we too |
| White Dove of the wild dark eyes |
| White waves on the water |
| Who knows what days I answer for to-day? |
| Who looked for thee, thou little song of mine? |
| Whose is the speech |
| Who then is “he”? |
| Why am I sorry, Chloe? Because the moon is far |
| Why didst thou carve thy speech laboriously |
| Why is that wanton gossip Fame |
| Why is there in the least touch of her hands |
| Why wilt thou chide |
| Wide waters in the waste; or, out of reach |
| Wine and woman and song |
| |
| Yes, from the ingrate heart, the street |
| You bid me hold my peace |
| You “made a virtue of necessity” |
| “You never attained to Him?” |
| Your fault, Lady, is to be |
| Your own fair youth, you care so little for it |
| You would have understood me, had you waited |