Synopses & Reviews
New Poems. 1907. zndimpression. MatAews. Nature Poems. I 908. 3rd impression. Fijeld. Farewell to Poesy. I 9 I o. Fgeld. Songs of Joy. I g I I. FgeM. Foliage. I g I 3 Mathews. TAe Bird of Paradise. I g I 4. Methuen. ChiM Lovers. I g I 6. 2nd impression. Fif cId. CoUected Poems. I 9 I 6. 2nd imprcssim. F e i. Forty New Poems. I 91 8. Fifield. Prose The Autobiograbhy g a Super-Tramp.. Wit4 Preface by Bernard Shaw. I 907. A Impression. Fif eM. AiPiZgrimagc in Wabs. I g I 8. Melrosc. All rigits reserved PRINTED BY WI1, LIAW RRENDON AND SOW, LTD., PLYMOUTH, ENGLAND Contents To my Thoughts . The Holly on the Wall How Late . . Page . . 34 . 35 . 36 Brothers . . 37 Exalted Flower . What Tboughts are Mine . Angel and Mystery . 41 Theyre Taxing Aleagain . The Girl is Mad . In Time of War England Come, er us Find . The Birds of Stee . 48 Rags and Bones . 49 The Dancer . . 50 On hearing Mrs. Woodhouse play the Harpsichord 5 I Passions Greed . . . 52 Late Singers . 53 The Voice THE nightingale I had not heard, Though charmed by many another bird If no . one tells me it is her, How shall I know whose voice is near She sings, Im told, in some dark wood, Ten yards of moonlight from the road. This night, as I go forth alone, Before the month of June has gone, What voice is this among the trees, So startling sweet The matchless ease, The passion, power that will not fail-The nightingale The nightingale I ask no man what bird is this, The singer of such pain and bliss All other birds sing from their throats, But from her heart come this birds notes To them 1 give my common cheers, But you, my love, I thank with tears. Confession 0 NE hour in every hundred hours I sing of childhood, birds and flowers Whoreads my character in song Will not see much in me thats wrong. But in my ninety hours and nine I would not tell what thoughts are mine Theyre not so pure as find their words In songs of childhood, flowers and birds. Easter WHAT exultations in my mind From the love-bite of this Easter wind I My head thrown back, my face doth shine Like yonder Suns, but warmer mine. A butterfly-from who knows where -Comes with a stagger through the air, And, lying down, doth ope and close His wings, as babies work their toes Perhaps he thinks of pressing tight Into his wings a little light I And many a bird hops in between The leaves he dreams of, long and green, And sings for nipple-buds that show where the full-breasted leaves must grow. Winter is dead, and now we sing This welcome to the new-born Spring.
Synopsis
Many of the earliest books, particularly those dating back to the 1900s and before, are now extremely scarce and increasingly expensive. We are republishing these classic works in affordable, high quality, modern editions, using the original text and artwork.