VOL. PAGE On either side the river lie. I 73 One lesson, Nature, let me learn of thee, O never say that I was false of heart, One word is too often profaned On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen-hundred O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, III O thou that swing'st upon the waving hair Our bugles sang truce,-for the night-cloud had Our doctor had called in another, I never had Out of a fired ship, which by no way O, well for him whose will is strong! "O where ha'e ye been, Lord Randal, my son? O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day, lips, Rabbi Jehosha used to say Rarely, rarely, comest thou, Pilgrims, whose wandering feet have pressed Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth Proud Maisie is in the wood, Proud word you never spoke, but you will speak Prune thou thy words, the thoughts control Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair, Renowned Spenser lie a thought more nigh Said Abner, "At last thou art come! Saint Brandan sails the northern main; Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frown'd 14 VI 45 I 268 See the Chariot at hand here of Love, Set where the upper streams of Simois flow She died in June, while yet the woodbine sprays She loves him; for her infinite soul is Love, VOL. PAGE Should auld acquaintance be forgot, III 261 Shut not so soon; the dull-eyed night Since all that I can ever do for thee. Since there's no help, come let us kiss and Sit down, sad soul, and count Sometimes thou seem'st not as thyself alone, "Speak! speak! thou fearful guest! Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou. III IV 283 IV 182 III 303 St. Agnes' Eve-Ah, bitter chill it was!. II III III IV 15 68 47 23 96 Strange fits of passion have I known: "Summer is coming, summer is coming. Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright! Sweet Echo, sweetest Nymph that liv'st unseen Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Thank Heaven! the crisis-. That time of year thou may'st in me behold 132 The awful shadow of some unseen Power. The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The expense of Spirit is a waste of shame The harp that once through Tara's halls The Laird o' Cockpen he 's proud an' he's great, The last and greatest herald of Heaven's King, The muffled drum's sad roll has beat There is a mountain and a wood between us, There's a palace in Florence, the world knows There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs. There was a youth, and a well-beloved youth, The soul of man is larger than the sky, |