Bright as the day, and like the morning fair,
Such Chloe is—and common as the air.

I saw how beautiful your mansions are —
Your lakes and valleys and your peopled plain,
But thought of all that loss with all that gain,
And one geography is not enough.
One world, one world to loose the spirit in,
Will not contain a continental ghost.
I have a dream of islands drunk and lost,
Of cities shining with a ripe decay
Where old ships feed about their harbors' knees,
— Far, far beyond your small and private seas.











Used by permission of the author

The bride cam' out o' the byre,
— And oh, as she dighted her cheeks:
" Sirs, I'm to be married the night,
— And ha'e neither blankets nor sheets;
Ha'e neither blankets nor sheets,
— Nor scarce a coverlet too;
The bride that has a' thing to borrow,
— Has e'ndash right muckle ado! "
— — — Wooed and married, and a',
— — — Married and wooed and a'!
— — — And was she nae very weel aff,
— — — That was wooed and married and a'?

Out spake the bride's father,
— As he cam' in frae the pleugh:

From the flower vendor I bought
A sprig of spring just bursting into bloom —
Sprinkled all over with teardrops
Still tinged with traces of
Roseate clouds and morning dew.

Lest my beloved should think
I'm not so fair as the flower,
I pin it slanting in my cloud hair,
And ask him to see
Which of us is the lovelier:
The flower or I.

Brid one brere, brid, brid one brere,
Kind is come of love, love to crave.
Blithful brid on me, on me, thou rewe,
Or greith, lef, greith thou me my grave.

Ich am so blithe, so bright, brid on brere,
When I see that hende, hende in halle;
Hie is whit of lime, lovely, trewe,
Hie is fair and flowr, and flowr of alle.

Mighte ich hire at wille, wille have,
Stedefast of love, lovely, trewe,
Of my sorwe hie may, hie may me save
Joye and blisse were ere, were ere me newe.

Meanwhile Nydia, when separated by the throng from Glaucus and Ione, had in vain endeavored to regain them. . . . Again and again she returned to the spot where they had been divided—to find her companions gone.—“ Last Days of Pompeii .”
Breathless she stood, her graceful head bent low,
And dainty fingers round her chiseled ear;
The cherished staff held tenderly as erst,
When knew the tender heart nor grief nor fear.
A startled dove she seemed amid the gloom
And wrath of Nature wakened from soft dreams;
Yet her imploring soul's reflection shone

breathing the strong smell of each other
I want it to last forever
it is never enough
warming the coldness of the heart

we stood holding each other
two men locking eyes and lips
then your mind cut the flow
and it was abruptly over

yet I felt curiously healed
as if life were about to begin

Breathing do I draw that air to me
Which I feel coming from Provença,
All that is thence so pleasureth me
That whenever I hear good speech of it
I listen a-laughing and straightway
Demand for each word an hundred more,
So fair to me is the hearing.

No man hath known such sweet repair
'Twixt Rhone's swift stream and Vensa,
From the shut sea to Durensa,
Nor any place with joys so rare
As among the French folk where
I left my heart a-laughing in her care,
Who turns the veriest sullen unto laughter.

FOR ONE SLAIN IN BATTLE

Breathe , trumpets, breathe
Slow notes of saddest wailing, —
Sadly responsive peal, ye muffled drums;
Comrades, with downcast eyes
And banners trailing,
Attend him home, —
The youthful warrior comes.

Upon his shield,
Upon his shield returning,
Borne from the field of honor
Where he fell;

Breath of spring bit by bit milder;
rattling the rings on my staff, I head for the east town.
Green green, willows in the gardens;
bobbing bobbing, duckweed on the pond.
Alms bowl smelling sweet with rice from a thousand houses;
heart indifferent to ten-thousand-chariot glory.
Following in tracks of old-time buddhas,
begging for food, I go my way.