me,
Thy voice is like a fountain,
'Tis a woodland enchanted!
To those who died for her on land and sea,
True as the sun's own work but more refined,
True Love is a humble, low-born thing,
Turbid from London's noise and smoke,
'Twas sung of old in hut and hall,
'Twere no hard task, perchance, to win,
Two brothers once, an ill-matched pair,
Two fellers, Isrel named and Joe,

Unconscious as the sunshine, simply sweet,
Unseen Musician, thou art sure to please,
Untremulous in the river clear,

Violet! sweet violet!

Wait a little: do _we_ not wait?
Walking alone where we walked together,
We see but half the causes of our deeds,
We, too, have autumns, when our leaves,
We wagered, she for sunshine, I for rain,
Weak-winged is song,
What boot your houses and your lands?
What countless years and wealth of brain were spent,
'What fairings will ye that I bring?'
What gnarled stretch, what depth of shade, is his!
What hath Love with Thought to do?
What know we of the world immense,
What man would live coffined with brick and stone,
What mean these banners spread,
'What means this glory round our feet,'
What Nature makes in any mood,
What visionary tints the year puts on,
What were I, Love, if I were stripped of thee,
What were the whole void world, if thou wert dead,
When a deed is done for Freedom, through the broad earth's aching breast,
When I was a beggarly boy,
When oaken woods with buds are pink,
When Persia's sceptre trembled in a hand,
When the down is on the chin,
When wise Minerva still was young,
Where is the true man's fatherland?
'Where lies the capital, pilgrim, seat of who governs the Faithful?'
Whether my heart hath wiser grown or not,
Whether the idle prisoner through his grate,
While the slow clock, as they were miser's gold,
Whither? Albeit I follow fast,
Who cometh over the hills,
Who does his duty is a question,
Who hath not been a poet? Who hath not,
Why should I seek her spell to decompose,
With what odorous woods and spices,
Woe worth the hour when it is crime,
Wondrous and awful are thy silent halls,
Words pass as wind, but where great deeds were done,
Worn and footsore was the Prophet,

Ye little think what toil it was to build,
Ye who, passing graves by night,
Yes, faith is a goodly anchor,

Zekle crep' up, quite unbeknown,

INDEX OF TITLES

The titles of major works and of general divisions are set in SMALL
CAPITALS.

A.C.L., To.
Above and Below.
Absence.
After