I WOULD make a list against the evil days
Of lovely things to hold in memory:
First, I set down my lady's lovely face,
For earth has no such lovely thing as she;
And next I add, to bear her company,
The great-eyed virgin star that morning brings;
Then the wild-rose upon its little tree —
So runs my catalogue of lovely things.

The enchanted dog-wood, with its ivory trays,
The water-lily in its sanctuary
Of reeded pools, and dew-drenched lilac sprays,
For these, of all fair flowers, the fairest be;

BEFORE AN ALTAR

I WISH I were the little key
That locks Love's Captive in,
And lets Him out to go and free
A sinful heart from sin.

I wish I were the little bell
That tinkles for the Host,
When God comes down each day to dwell
With hearts He loves the most.

I wish I were the chalice fair,
That holds the Blood of Love,
When every gleam lights holy prayer
Upon its way above.

I wish I were the little flower
So near the Host's sweet face,

I WISH I loved the Human Race;
I wish I loved its silly face;
I wish I loved the way it walks;
I wish I loved the way it talks;
And when I'm introduced to one
I wish I thought What Jolly Fun!

I shake my hair in the wind of morning
For the joy within me that knows no bounds.
I echo backward the vibrant beauty
Wherewith heaven's hollow lute resounds.

I shed my song on the feet of all men,
On the feet of all shed out like wine;
On the whole and the hurt I shed my bounty,
The beauty within me that is not mine.

Turn not away from my song, nor scorn me
Who bear the secret that holds the sky
And the stars together; but know within me
There speaks another more wise than I.

I saw a bee, I saw a flower;
I looked again and said, For sure
Never was flower, never was bee
Locked in such immobility.

The loud bees lurched about the hill,
But this flower-buried bee was still;
I said, O Love, has love the power
To change a bee into a flower?

I salute the most high lord,
the most worthy one, because he's a king.
I compose a poem in the first place,
a song of praise like Merlin sang,
my skill in verse to the women who own it
(how hesitant their virtue makes them!),
the best in all the country west
of Chester gates to Porth Ysgewin.

One is a girl who must be chiefly praised,
Gwenllian, summer-weather-hued;
the second is the one in the mantle and gold collar;
my lips are far from her.

Fair Gweirfyl, my gift, my mystery, whom I never had;

I paintedrouge on my lips,
and kissed the trunk of a new birch,
even if I were a handsome man,
on my chest are no breasts likerubber balls,
from my skin rises no fragrance of finetexturedpowder,
I am a wizened man of ill fate,
ah, what a pitiable man,
in today's balmy early summer field,
in a stand of glistening trees,
I slipped on my hands sky blue gloves,
put around my waist something like acorset,
smeared on my nape something like nape powder,
thus hushed assuming a coquettishpose,
as young girls do,
I cocked my head a little,

I

The multicoloured mushroom seems
a Japanese toad's
parasol.

II

The dragon-fly strives patiently
to fasten its transparent cross
to the bare and trembling bough.

III

Ants on inert cricket crawling.
Memory
of Gulliver in Lilliput.

IV

Mingled, in the quiet evening,
chimes of angelus and bats
and swallows fly.

I met at eve the Prince of Sleep,
His was a still and lovely face,
He wandered through a valley steep,
Lovely in a lonely place.

His garb was grey of lavender,
About his brows a poppy-wreath
Burned like dim coals, and everywhere
The air was sweeter for his breath.

His twilight feet no sandals wore,
His eyes shone faint in their own flame,
Fair moths that gloomed his steps before
Seemed letters of his lovely name.

His house is in the mountain ways,
A phantom house of misty walls,
Whose golden flocks at evening graze,

I love you more than human heart can bear
More than a poet dreams or lover feels
You are the perfumed cloud from heaven sent
To rain upon me your enchanted dew;
I feel your heart, your veins flow into mine,
No gap to let the impure world creep in;
My heart confronts your heart, finding its twin,
As two cups meet in one ethereal vow;
In us when wine is made to mix with wine,
A blend of perfume, breeze, and dew combine;
My inspiration dwells within your eyes,
And swells when lip on lip instructs my art;
For us the fire rages, though unfed,