Follow, follow,
Though with mischief
Arm'd, like whirlwind
Now she flies thee;
Time can conquer
Love's unkindness;
Love can alter
Time's disgraces:
Till death faint not
Then, but follow.
Could I catch that
Nimble traitor
Scornful Laura,
Swift-foot Laura,
Soon then would I
Seek avengement
What's th' avengement?
Ev'n submissly
Prostrate then to
Beg for mercy.

Lovely ter of lovely eye,
Why dost thou me so wo?
Sorful ter of sorful eye,
Thou brekst myn herte a-two.

Thou sikest sore,
Thy sorwe is more
Than mannes mouth may telle;
Thou singest of sorwe
Mankin to borwe
Out of the pit of helle.

I proud and kene,
Thou meke and clene
Withouten wo or wile;
Thou art ded for me,
And I live through thee —
So blissed be that while! ...

Thyn herte is rent,
Thy body is bent
Upon the roode-tree;
The weder is went,
The devel is shent,

The fog is freezing on the trees and shrubs;
Each tendril of the larch is edged with lace;
The tiniest twigs are filigreed with frost;
There is faint movement through an open space —
And lovely white ghosts wake mysteriously
Like white thoughts smiling through gray memory.

1

The fly or beetle on their track
Are things that know no sin
And when they whemble on their back
What terror they seem in
The shepherd boy wi' bits o' bents
Will turn them up again
And start them where they nimbly went
Along the grassy plain
And such the shepherd boy is found
While lying on the sun crackt ground.

2

The lady-bird that seldom stops
From climbing all the day
Climbs up the rushes tassle tops
Spreads wings and flies away
He sees them — lying on the grass
Musing the whole day long

To Robert Gould Shaw

Flushed with the hope of high desire,
— He buckled on his sword,
To dare the rampart ranged with fire,
— Or where the thunder roared;
Into the smoke and flame he went,
— For God's great cause to die —
A youth of heaven's element,
— The flower of chivalry.

This was the gallant faith, I trow,
— Of which the sages tell;
On such devotion long ago
— The benediction fell;
And never nobler martyr burned,
— Or braver hero died,
Than he who worldly honor spurned
— To serve the Crucified.

Flowrets — wreaths — thy banks along —
Silent eve — th'accustomed song —
Silver-slippered — whilom — lore —
Druid — Paynim — mountain hoar —
Dulcet — eremite — what time —
( " Excuse me — here I want a rhyme.")
Black-browed night — Hark! screech-owls sing!
Ebon car — and raven wing —
Charnel-houses — lonely dells —
Glimmering tapers — dismal cells —
Hallowed haunts — and horrid piles —
Roseate hues — and ghastly smiles —
Solemn fanes — and cypress bowers —
Thunder-storms — and tumbling towers —

1

Flowers shall hang upon the pawls
Brighter than patterns upon shawls
And blossoms shall be in the coffin lids
Sadder than tears on greifs eyelids
Garlands shall hide pale corp[s]es faces
When beauty shall rot in charnel places
Spring flowers shall come in dews of sorrow
For the maiden goes down to her grave tomorrow.

2

Last week she went walking and stepping along
Gay as first flowers of spring or the tune of a song
Her eye was as bright as the sun in its calm
Her lips they were rubies her bosom was warm

The flowers left thick at nightfall in the wood
This Eastertide call into mind the men,
Now far from home, who, with their sweethearts, should
Have gathered them and will do never again.

Flowers I would bring if flowers could make thee fairer,
And music, if the Muse were dear to thee;
(For loving these would make thee love the bearer)
But sweetest songs forget their melody,
And loveliest flowers would but conceal the wearer:
A rose I marked, and might have plucked; but she
Blushed as she bent, imploring me to spare her,
Nor spoil her beauty by such rivalry.
Alas! and with what gifts shall I pursue thee,
What offerings bring, what treasures lay before thee;
When earth with all her floral train doth woo thee,

Flowers for you, O Glory's son, war's prey!
How long, how long since you were laid
To guarded rest where a nation's shrine is made!
Nor care nor fighting touch you there.

A pretty spot, Soldier, above your head,
But you, brave lad, are dead . . . are dead.
And in this world you gallantly forswore
Already leer and snarl the wolves of war,
While folly, hatred, lust and greed
Contend much as before.

Courage and the high heart were yours.
Then shall we patriots supinely heap
Your tomb with wreaths of fame