This winter air is keen and cold,And keen and cold this winter sun,But round my chair the children runLike little things of dancing gold. Sometimes about the painted kioskThe mimic soldiers strut and stride,Sometimes the blue-eyed brigands hideIn the bleak…
Now when the darkness came over the earth Joseph of Arimathea,having lighted a torch of pinewood, passed down from the hill intothe valley. For he had business in his own home. And kneeling on the flint stones of the Valley…
The silent room, the heavy creeping shade,The dead that travel fast, the opening door,The murdered brother rising through the floor,The ghost’s white fingers on thy shoulders laid,And then the lonely duel in the glade,The broken swords, the stifled scream, the…
I marvel not Bassanio was so boldTo peril all he had upon the lead,Or that proud Aragon bent low his head,Or that Morocco’s fiery heart grew cold:For in that gorgeous dress of beaten goldWhich is more golden than the golden…
From his childhood he had been as one filled with the perfectknowledge of God, and even while he was yet but a lad many of thesaints, as well as certain holy women who dwelt in the free city ofhis birth,…
These are the letters which Endymion wroteTo one he loved in secret and apart,And now the brawlers of the auction-martBargain and bid for each poor blotted note,Aye! for each separate pulse of passion quoteThe merchant’s price! I think they love…
To stab my youth with desperate knives, to wearThis paltry age’s gaudy livery,To let each base hand filch my treasury,To mesh my soul within a woman’s hair,And be mere Fortune’s lackeyed groom, — I swearI love it not! these things…
Against these turbid turquoise skiesThe light and luminous balloonsDip and drift like satin moonsDrift like silken butterflies; Reel with every windy gust,Rise and reel like dancing girls,Float like strange transparent pearls,Fall and float like silver dust. Now to the low…
O well for him who lives at easeWith garnered gold in wide domain,Nor heeds the splashing of the rain,The crashing down of forest trees. O well for him who ne’er hath knownThe travail of the hungry years,A father grey with…
The Gods are dead: no longer do we bringTo grey-eyed Pallas crowns of olive-leaves!Demeter’s child no more hath tithe of sheaves,And in the noon the careless shepherds sing,For Pan is dead, and all the wantoningBy secret glade and devious haunt…
