I will strew rushes
On my chamber-floor,
I will plant bergamot
At my kitchen-door.
For the sake of dim things
That were once so plain
I will set a barrel
Out to catch the rain,
I will hang an iron pot
On an iron crane.
Many things be dead and gone
That were brave and gay;
For the sake of these things
I will learn to say,
‘An it please you, gentle sirs,’
‘Alack!’ and ‘Well-a-day!’
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What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
Under my head till morning; but the rainIs full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sighUpon the glass and listen for reply,And in my heart there stirs a quiet painFor unremembered lads that not againWill turn to me at midnight with a cry.Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,Nor knows what birds have vanished one…
Here is a wound that never will heal, I know,
But of a love turned ashes and the breathGone out of beauty; never again will growThe grass on that scarred acre, though I sowYoung seed there yearly and the sky bequeathIts friendly weathers down, far UnderneathShall be such bitterness of an old woe.That April should be shattered by a gust,That August should be levelled by…
Oh, oh, you will be sorry for that word!
Was it my enemy or my friend I heard,‘What a big book for such a little head!’Come, I will show you now my newest hat,And you may watch me purse my mouth and prink!Oh, I shall love you still, and all of that.I never again shall tell you what I think.I shall be sweet and…
I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. CrownedWith lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost.The answers quick…
There will be rose and rhododendron
Still will be heard from white syringasHeavy with bees, a sunny sound;Still will the tamaracks be rainingAfter the rain has ceased, and stillWill there be robins in the stubble,Brown sheep upon the warm green hill.Spring will not ail nor autumn falter;Nothing will know that you are gone,Saving alone some sullen plough-landNone but yourself sets foot…
ALL right,
What’s in a name?I guess I’ll be locked intoAs much as I’m locked out of!