 | Collected poems |  |
[To you I sing, whom towns immure]
To you I sing, whom towns immure,
And bonds of toil hold fast and sure;—
To you across whose aching sight
Come woodlands bathed in April light,
And dreams of pastime premature.
And bonds of toil hold fast and sure;—
To you across whose aching sight
Come woodlands bathed in April light,
And dreams of pastime premature.
And you, O Sad, who still endure
Some wound that only Time can cure,—
To you, in watches of the night,—
To you I sing!
Some wound that only Time can cure,—
To you, in watches of the night,—
To you I sing!
But most to you with eyelids pure,
Scarce witting yet of love or lure;—
To you, with bird-like glances bright,
Half-paused to speak, half-poised in flight;—
O English Girl, divine, demure,
To you I sing!
Scarce witting yet of love or lure;—
To you, with bird-like glances bright,
Half-paused to speak, half-poised in flight;—
O English Girl, divine, demure,
To you I sing!
| Collected poems | |