I SAW HER in the fleeting Wind,
I heard Her on the sounding Shore;
The fairy Nymph of shadowy Kind,
That oft derides the Winter's Roar:
I heard her lash from Rock to Rock,
With shrill repeating solemn Shock;
I met her in the twilight's Shade
As flitting o'er my pensive Glade;
O'er yonder tepid Lake she flew,
Her Mantle gemm'd with silver Dew;
The bursting Note swept through the Sky
As the young Vallies pass'd the Sigh:
In Accents varied as the Passions change,
The Nymph, wild Echo , sweeps the hallow Range.

By the rosy cliffs of Devon, on a green hill's crest,
I would build me a house as a swallow builds its nest;
I would curtain it with roses, and the wind should breathe to me
The sweetness of the roses and the saltness of the sea.

Where the Tuscan olives whiten in the hot blue day,
I would hide me from the heat in a little hut of gray,
While the singing of the husbandmen should scale my lattice green
From the golden rows of barley that the poppies blaze between.

Narrow is the street, Dear, and dingy are the walls

By the Isar, in the twilight
We were wandering and singing,
By the Isar, in the evening
We climbed the huntsman's ladder and sat swinging
In the fir-tree overlooking the marshes,
While river met with river, and the ringing
Of their pale-green glacier water filled the evening.

By the Isar, in the twilight
We found the dark wild roses
Hanging red at the river; and simmering
Frogs were singing, and over the river closes
Was savour of ice and of roses; and glimmering
Fear was abroad. We whispered: " No one knows us.

(B OSTON , 1698)

B Y the grim grace of the Puritans she had been brought
Into their frigid meeting-house to list
Her funeral sermon before the rope ran taut.
Soft neck that he had kissed!

Through the narrow window her dazed blue eyes could see
The rope. Like a glittering icicle it hung
From the hoar cross-beam of the horrible gallows-tree.
His arms about her flung!

Two captive Indians and one Guinea slave,
Hating at heart the merciless white God,
In the stubborn ground were hacking her shallow grave.

By the ford at the town's edge
Horse and carter rest:
The carter smokes on the bridge
Watching the water press in swathes about his horse's chest.

From the inn one watches, too,
In the room for visitors
That has no fire, but a view
And many cases of stuffed fish, vermin, and kingfishers.

By the beard of the Prophet the Bashaw swore
He would scourge us from the seas;
Yankees should trouble his soul no more —
By the Prophet's beard the Bashaw swore,
Then lighted his hookah, and took his ease,
And troubled his soul no more.

The moon was dim in the western sky
And a mist fell soft on the sea
As we slipped away from the Siren brig
And headed for Tripoli.

By seven vineyards on one hill
— We walked. The native wine
In clusters grew beside us two,
— For your lips and for mine,

When, " Hark! " you said, — " Was that a bell
— Or a bubbling spring we heard? "
But I was wise and closed my eyes
— And listened to a bird;

For as summer leaves are bent and shake
— With singers passing through,
So moves in me continually
— The winged breath of you.

You tasted from a single vine
— And took from that your fill —
But I inclined to every kind,
— All seven on one hill.

By scattered rocks and turbid waters shifting,
— By furrowed glade and dell,
To feverish men thy calm, sweet face uplifting,
— Thou stayest them to tell

The delicate thought that cannot find expression,
— For ruder speech too fair,
That, like thy petals, trembles in possession,
— And scatters on the air.

The miner pauses in his rugged labor,
— And, leaning on his spade,
Laughingly calls unto his comrade-neighbor
— To see thy charms displayed.

But in his eyes a mist unwonted rises,
— And for a moment clear

HENRY I OF ENGLAND — 25TH NOVEMBER 1120

By none but me can the tale be told,
The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold.
(Lands are swayed by a King on a throne.)
'Twas a royal train put forth to sea,
Yet the tale can be told by none but me.
(The sea hath no King but God alone.)

King Henry held it as life's whole gain
That after his death his son should reign.

'Twas so in my youth I heard men say,
And my old age calls it back to-day.

By Nebo's lonely mountain,
On this side Jordan's wave,
In a vale in the land of Moab,
There lies a lonely grave;
But no man built that sepulchre,
And no man saw it e'er;
For the angels of God upturned the sod,
And laid the dead man there.

That was the grandest funeral
That ever passed on earth;
Yet no man heard the trampling,
Or saw the train go forth:

Noiselessly as the daylight
Comes when the night is done,
And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek
Grows into the great sun;

Noiselessly as the spring-time