Albeit nurtured in democracy A Lily-girl, not made for this world’s pain Apple trees are hung with gold, The A ring of gold and a milk-white dove As oftentimes the too resplendent sun As one who poring on a Grecian urn Christ, dost thou live indeed? or are thy bones Come down, O Christ, and help me! reach thy hand Corn has turned from grey to red, The Dear Heart I think the young impassioned priest Eagle of Austerlitz! where were thy wings Gods are dead: no longer do we bring, The Her ivory hands on the ivory keys He was a grecian lad, who coming home How steep the stairs within Kings’ houses are How vain and dull this common world must seem I am weary of lying within the chase I marvel not Bassanio was so bold In the lone tent, waiting for victory I reached the Alps: the soul within me burned Is it thy will that I should wax and wane I stood by the unvintageable sea Italia! thou art fallen, though with sheen It is full summer now, the heart of June It is full Winter now: the trees are bare I wandered in Scoglietto’s green retreat Like burnt-out torches by a sick man’s bed Little white clouds are racing over the sky, The Milton! I think thy spirit hath passed away My limbs are wasted with a flame Nay, let us walk from fire unto fire Nay, Lord, not thus! white lilies in the spring Not that I love thy children, whose dull eyes Oft have we trod the vales of Castaly Oleander on the wall, The O Singer of Persephone! Rid of the world’s injustice, and his pain Rome! what a scroll of History thine has been Sea is flecked with bars of grey, The Sea was sapphire coloured, and the sky, The See, I have climbed the mountain side Set in this stormy Northern sea Seven stars in the still water Silent room, the heavy creeping shade, The Silver trumpets rang across the Dome, The Sky is laced with fitful red, The Sweet I blame you not for mine the fault was, had I not been made of common clay Thames nocturne of blue and gold, The There was a time in Europe long ago This English Thames is holier far than Rome This mighty empire hath but feet of clay To drift with every passion till my soul To outer senses there is peace To stab my youth with desperate knives, to wear To that gaunt House of Art which lacks for naught Tread lightly, she is near Two crownèd Kings, and One that stood alone Was this His coming! I had hoped to see Western wind is blowing fair, The Where hast thou been since round the walls of Troy Wild bee reels from bough to bough, The Within this restless, hurried, modern world
