Oh tarnish late on Wenlock Edge, Gold that I never see; Lie long, high snowdrifts in the hedge That will not shower on me.

There, like the wind through woods in riot, Through him the gale of life blew high; The tree of man was never quiet: Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I.

Into my heart an air that kills From yon far country blows: What are those blue remembered hills, What spires, what farms are those? That is the land of lost c…

But from my grave across my brow Plays no wind of healing now, And fire and ice within me fight Beneath the suffocating night.

Sweet April-time - O cruel April-time! Year after year returning, with a brow Of promise, and red lips with longing paled, And backward-hidden hands that clutc…

The dews of the evening most carefully shun - Those tears of the sky for the loss of the sun.

Late at night I keep thinking: if I had only reached to that girl, if only, if only.