Sweetest love, I do not go,
For weariness of thee,
Nor in hope the world can show
A fitter love for me;
But since that I
Must die at last, 'tis best
To use myself in jest
Thus by feign'd deaths to die.
Yesternight the sun went hence,
And yet is here today;
He hath no desire nor sense,
Nor half so short a way:
Then fear not me...
“behold another singer!” Criton said,
And sneered, and in his sneering turned the leaf:
“Who reads the poets now? They are past and dead:
Give me for their vain work unrhymed relief.”
A laugh went round. Meanwhile the last ripe sheaf
Of corn was garnered, and the summer birds
Stilled their dear notes, while autumn’s voice of grief
Rang...
The saddest noise, the sweetest noise,
The maddest noise that grows, —
The birds, they make it in the spring,
At night's delicious close.
Between the March and April line —
That magical frontier
Beyond which summer hesitates,
Almost too heavenly near.
It makes us think...
The sweetest Heresy received
That Man and Woman know —
Each Other's Convert —
Though the Faith accommodate but Two —
The Churches are so frequent —
The Ritual — so small —
The Grace so unavoidable —
To fail — is Infidel —
