The old Old winds that blew When chaos was, what do They tell the clattered trees that I Should weep?

These be Three silent things: The falling snow...the hour Before the dawn...the mouth of one Just dead.

Listen. With faint dry sound, Like steps of passing ghosts, The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the trees And fall.

I know Not these my hands And yet I think there was A woman like me once had hands Like these.

Had Shakspeare and Milton lived in the atmosphere of modern feeling, had they had the multitude of new thoughts and feelings to deal with a modern has, I think…

As I go musing through this mournful land Soothed by the pine-tree's solemn harmony, Thy well-loved image comes and walks by me. I seem to hold thee by the gen…

Go by reverently, and read with sober care How a great people, riding with defiant shouts The centaur of Revolution, Spurred and whipped to frenzy, Shook with …