Selected Poems

Song of the Sea Wind, The,

204.

Sundial, The, 99.
Surge et Ambula, 210.

Tanneguy du Bois, The Dying
of, 122.

Thomson, To Hugh, 228.
Time the Tyrant, To, 229.
To Greek Girl, 114.
To an Intrusive Butterfly, 139.
To an Unknown Bust in the
British Museum, 143.
To Belgium, 231.
To Daffodils, 190.
To F. M. D., 206.
To George H. Boughton,
R.A. (Spring stirs), 207.
To Hugh Thomson, 228.

To Myrtalé, 216

To One who bids me sing,
181.

To Q. H. F., 85.
To Time the Tyrant 229.
To You I sing, I.
Toyman, The, 170.
Tu quoque, 58.
"Two Maids uprose in the
Shimmering Light", 224.
Two Painters, The, 173.

Une Marquise, 31.
Unfinished Song, An, 103.
Unknown Bust, To an, 143.

Virtuoso, A, 81.

Wanderer, The, 189.

INDEX TO FIRST LINES

Across the grass I see her pass
"Ah me, but it might have been'
Ah, Postumus, we all must go
"Arise and walk "-the one voice said
As I went a-walking on Lavender Hill
As you sit there at your ease
Bards of the Future! you that come.
Be seated, pray. "A grave appeal?'
Between the berried holly-bush.
Chicken-skin, delicate, white
Come live with me and be my dear
Day of my Life! Where can she get?
Down where the garden grows.
Farewell, kind heart! And if there be
For Right, not Might, you fought.
He is the despots' Despot. All must bide
He lived in that past Georgian day
Here in this leafy place
Here, in this sequestered close
Here sleeps, at last, in narrow bed

The foe

Here, where the beech-nuts drop among the

grasses

•

He that was King an hour ago
"Horatius Flaccus, B. C. 8"

How it sings, sings, sings.
How steadfastly she'd worked at it

I drew it from its china tomb

I had a vacant dwelling

•

I plunge my hand among the leaves.

PAGE

151

191

163

210

222

233

192

214

119

223

231

198

107
161

218

226

204
106

176
67

I watch you through the garden walks
I'd read three hours. Both notes and text
If I were you, when ladies at the play, sir
If this should fail, why then I scarcely know
In after days when grasses high

In Angel-Court the sunless air.

In Art some hold themselves content

In Fifty-six, when Gilbert drew

It runs (so saith my Chronicler)

It stands in the stable-yard, under the eaves
It was an elm-tree root of yore.
King Philip had vaunted his claims
Life, like a page unpenned

Love comes back to his vacant dwelling
Melik the Sultán, tired and wan

"Miss Peacock's called." And who demurs
Monsieur the Curé down the street

Myrtalé, when I am gone.
No grave more nobly graced
O undistinguished Dead
O yellow flowers by Herrick sung
Old it is, and worn and battered
Palm-trees and wells they found of yore
Rose, in the hedgerow grown
Rose kissed me to-day

Seventeen hundred and thirty-nine
She lived in Georgian era too

She then must once have looked, as I

So he wrote, the old bard of an old Magazine"
Spring,-art thou come, O Spring

Spring stirs and wakes by holt and hill
The ladies of St. James's