It is night; and I am alone, forlorn
on the hill of storms. The wind is
heard in the mountain. The torrent
shrieks down the rock. No hut receives
me from the rain; forlorn on the hill of
winds.

The Retreat.

© Robert Crawford

Against my lonely latter years
I'll build a faery home for me
Proof against sorrow with its fears,
And age with its adversity.

Again, the year's _decline_, midst storms and floods,
The thund'ring chase, the yellow fading woods,
Invite my song; that fain would boldly tell
Of upland coverts, and the echoing dell,
By turns resounding loud, at eve and morn
The swineherd's halloo, or the huntsman's horn.

Our Heritage

© William Henry Ogilvie

This is our heritage; the far-flung grass,

The golden stubble and the dark-red moor;

Incidents in the life of my Uncle Arly

© Edward Lear

O my aged Uncle Arly!

Sitting on a heap of Barley

And So I've Found My Native Country...

© Attila Jozsef

And so I've found my native country,
that soil the gravedigger will frame,
where they who write the words above me
do not for once misspell my name.

Trilogy Of Passion 02 Elegy

© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

WHAT hope of once more meeting is there now
In the still-closed blossoms of this day?
Both heaven and hell thrown open seest thou;
What wav'ring thoughts within the bosom play
No longer doubt! Descending from the sky,
She lifts thee in her arms to realms on high.

William and Helen

© Sir Walter Scott

I.
From heavy dreams fair Helen rose,
And eyed the dawning red:
"Alas, my love, thou tarriest long!
O art thou false or dead?"-

The Clue

Life from sunned peak, witched wood, and flowery dell
A hundred ways the eager spirit wooes,
To roam, to dream, to conquer, to rebel:
Yet in its ear a voice cries ever, Choose!

After A Lecture On Keats

"Purpureos spargam flores."

THE wreath that star-crowned Shelley gave

On Love

TO the assembled folk

At great St. Kavins spoke

Of Heaven

© John Bunyan

Heaven is a place, also a state,
It doth all things excel,
No man can fully it relate,
Nor of its glory tell.

When music, in a heart that's true,

Do kindle up wold loves anew,

Metamorphoses: Book The Seventh

© Ovid

The End of the Seventh Book.

Translated into English verse under the direction of
Sir Samuel Garth by John Dryden, Alexander Pope, Joseph Addison,
William Congreve and other eminent hands