THE LOOM OF YEARS In the light of the silent stars that shine on the struggling sea,In the weary cry of the wind and the whisper of flower and tree,Under the breath of laughter, deep in the tide of tears,I hear the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years. The leaves of the winter wither and sink in the forest mouldTo colour the flowers of April with purple and white and gold:Light and scent and music die and are born againIn the heart... more...

MIST IN THE VALLEY I Mist in the valley, weeping mistBeset my homeward way.No gleam of rose or amethystHallowed the parting day;A shroud, a shroud of awful greyWrapped every woodland brow,And drooped in crumbling disarrayAround each wintry bough. II And closer round me now it clungUntil I scarce could seeThe stealthy pathway overhungBy silent tree and treeWhich floated in that mysteryAs—poised in waveless deeps—Branching in... more...

Prologus Torpor, ebes sensus, scola parua labor minimusqueCausant quo minimus ipse minora canam:Qua tamen Engisti lingua canit Insula BrutiAnglica Carmente metra iuuante loquar.Ossibus ergo carens que conterit ossa loquelisAbsit, et interpres stet procul oro malus. Of hem that writen ous toforeThe bokes duelle, and we therforeBen tawht of that was write tho:Forthi good is that we alsoIn oure tyme among ous hiereDo wryte of newe som... more...

EPISTLE TO THE REV. J--- B---, WHILST JOURNEYING FOR THE RECOVERY OF HIS HEALTH. When warm’d with zeal, my rustic MuseFeels fluttering fain to tell her news,And paint her simple, lowly views      With all her art,And, though in genius but obtuse,      May touch the heart. Of palaces and courts of kingsShe thinks but little, never sings,But wildly strikes her uncouth... more...

INTRODUCTION Sassoon the Man In appearance he is tall, big-boned, loosely built. He is clean-shaven, pale or with a flush; has a heavy jaw, wide mouth with the upper lip slightly protruding and the curve of it very pronounced like that of a shrivelled leaf (as I have noticed is common in many poets). His nose is aquiline, the nostrils being wide and heavily arched. This characteristic and the fullness, depth and heat of his dark eyes give him... more...

A FROSTY NIGHT. MotherAlice, dear, what ails you,Dazed and white and shaken?Has the chill night numbed you?Is it fright you have taken?Alice Mother, I am very well,I felt never better,Mother, do not hold me so,Let me write my letter.MotherSweet, my dear, what ails you?AliceNo, but I am well;The night was cold and frosty,There's no more to tell.MotherAy, the night was frosty,Coldly gaped the moon,Yet the birds seemed twitteringThrough green... more...

High Noon Time's finger on the dial of my lifePoints to high noon! and yet the half-spent dayLeaves less than half remaining, for the dark,Bleak shadows of the grave engulf the end. To those who burn the candle to the stick,The sputtering socket yields but little light.Long life is sadder than an early death.We cannot count on raveled threads of ageWhereof to weave a fabric. We must useThe warp and woof the ready present yieldsAnd toil while... more...

PART I. HRO' scented meadows, where do grazeThe meek-eyed kine on summer days,At early morn swept Daisy Dare,—Sparkling, graceful, passing fair. Sparkling as the dew-drops gleamingOn her path, or sunlight streamingThrough her tresses—graceful, fair,As naught on earth save Daisy Dare!Wondrous tresses! sunshine fadesMid floating curls and sumptuous braids,—A crown of light that glorifiesWhite brow and deep impassioned... more...

Old Mother Duck has hatched a broodOf ducklings, small and callow:Their little wings are short, their downIs mottled gray and yellow.There is a quiet little stream,That runs into the moat,Where tall green sedges spread their leaves,And water-lilies float.Close by the margin of the brook,The old duck made her nest,Of straw, and leaves, and withered grass,And down from her own breast. View larger image And there she sat for four long weeks,In... more...

Who killed Cock Robin? With my bow and arrow, I, said the Sparrow, I kill'd Cock Robin.   Who saw him die? With my little eye, I, said the Fly, I saw him die.   Who caught his blood? With my little dish, I, said the Fish, I caught his blood.   Who'll make his shroud? With my thread and needle, I, said the Beetle, I'll make his shroud.   Who'll dig his grave? With my... more...