My little love, do you remember.

236

Now I heard

Oh, who shall sing of Life and not of Ill?

'O never shall any one find you then!'

Now, sitting by her side, worn out with weeping

Now the earth in fields and hills.

Now then, take your seats! for Glasgow and the North

O Nature! thou whom I have thought to love

O Night of death, O night that bringest all

O perishable Brother, what a World!
O Rainbow, Rainbow, on the livid height.
O song in the nightingale's throat, O music
O Thou whom men affirm we cannot know
Our youth began with tears and sighs
'Out in the meadows the young grass springs
O, what are you waiting for here? young man!.
'O where are you going with your love-locks flowing
Sad seems the room, and strangely still, where lies.
'She is dead!' they said to him.

'Come away'

She lived in the hovel alone, the beautiful child
Sit still, child, if you know the way.

Slips of a kid-skin deftly sewn

So he wrote, the old bard of an old magazine.

Sweet, sweet it was to sit in leafy Forests.

Sweet Valentine, dear lady mine.

167

25

138

324

62

240

219

218

22

40

217

242

317

155

97

251

248

76

210

275

288

295

28

327

The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept

The dead abide with us! Though stark and cold
The earliest keel, that sowed with snowy foam
The folds of her wine-dark violet dress.
The forest rears on lifted arms

The gift of God was mine; I lost

The hours are passing slow

Then it was again

Then, with weak hasty fingers, Sohrab loosed
The purdah hung

There's a joy without canker or cark

"T is thought Odysseus when the strife was o'er.

Too few to guard each passage, and thus ta'en

'T was August, and the fierce sun overhead

'T was the body of Judas Iscariot

Vanitas vanitatum has rung in the ears
We are the music makers.

We have loitered and laughed in the flowery croft
What came we forth to see? a fair or race?
What is it haunts the summer air? . .
What! wilt thou throw thy stone of malice now.
When I am dead, my dearest .
When, loved by poet and painter.

.

When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces
Where sunless rivers weep.

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323 113

20

40

282

228

285

263

99

195

253

272

116

250

While the Master spake

73

With pipe and flute the rustic Pan

310

Yes, he was well-nigh gone and near his rest.
You ask me to declare the spell

University Press: John Wilson and Son, Cambridge.