Twohundredfortyfour

April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land,…


Twohundredfortythree

You've never laughed Until the world Has been beneath you A mosaic map…


Twohundredfortytwo

Will no one tell me what she sings?— Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow…


Twohundredfortyone

Before my drift-wood fire I sit,    And see, with every waif I burn,…


Twohundredforty

Supper comes at five o'clock, At six, the evening star, My lover comes…


Twohundredthirtynine

From childhood’s hour I have not been As others were—I have not seen…


Twohundredthirtyeight

And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black.…


Twohundredthirtyseven

The low sandy beach and the thin scrub pine, The wide reach of bay and…


Twohundredthirtysix

I will make you brooches and toys for your delight Of bird-song at…


Twohundredthirtyfive

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its loveliness increases; it will…