And if from skyey minsters now unhoused,
Earth's massy workings at the forge we hear,
The black roll of the congregated sea,
And war's live hoof: O yet, last year, last year
We were the lark-lulled shepherdlings, that drowsed
Grave-deep, at noon, in grass of Arcady!

The Progress of the Spark

© Rudyard Kipling

This spark now set, retarded, yet forbears
To hold her light however so he swears
That turns a metalled crank, and leather cloaked,
With some small hammers tappeth hither an yon;

To Tochterchen: On Her Birthday

© Sydney Thompson Dobell

As one doth touch a flower wherein the dew

Trembles to fall, as one unplaits the ply

Translation Of The Famous Greek War Song

© George Gordon Byron

Sons of the Greeks, arise!
The glorious hour's gone forth,
And, worthy of such ties,
Display who gave us birth.

The Seed of David (For a Picture)

© Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Christ sprang from David Shepherd, and even so
From David King, being born of high and low.
The Shepherd lays his crook, the King his crown,
Here at Christ's feet, and high and low bow down.

To My Love.

© Arthur Henry Adams

"PAINT me," you said, "a poem; give to me
A breathing thought that I may keep to kiss!"
While that low laugh that aye a mandate is
Nestled upon your lips. Call memory

These Two

© Harriet Monroe

It seems too short a time
For these two to grow tall
Of body and soul,
Grow into men, and hear the iron call,
and give their youth's bright hoard.

'The Aeneid of Virgil: Book 5

MEANTIME the Trojan cuts his watry way,

Fixd on his voyage, thro the curling sea;

The Tree-Toad

I

Secluded, solitary on some underbough,

The Microscopic Trout And The Machiavellian Fisherman

A fisher was casting his flies in a brook,

According to laws of such sciences,

Thou Art Indeed Just

Sir, life upon thy cause. See, banks and brakes
Now, leav{`e}d how thick! lac{`e}d they are again
With fretty chervil, look, and fresh wind shakes
Them; birds build - but not I build; no, but strain,
Time's eunuch, and not breed one work that wakes.
Mine, O thou lord of life, send my roots rain.

The Waster's Presentiment

I shall be spun. There is a voice within
Which tells me plainly I am all undone;
For though I toil not, neither do I spin,
I shall be spun.

The War After The War

What shall we say, who, drawing indolent breath,
Mark the quick pant of those who, full of hate,
Drive home the steel or loose the shrieking shell,
Heroes or Huns, who smite the grin of death
And laugh or curse beneath the blows of fate,
Swept madly to the thudding heart of hell?