After the Winter, by Claude McKay
Some day, when trees have shed their leaves
A...
Some day, when trees have shed their leaves
A...
Your lips are like a southern lily red,
Wet w...
This closing effort, Arethusa, aid;
A few b...
Of air-born honey, gift of heaven, I now
Tak...
Daphnis beneath a whispering holm reclined,
A...
One sovereign holds indisputable sway!
Her lig...
Love, a Bee that lurk'd among
Roses saw not, ...
The music of the busy bee
Is drowsy, and it c...
A wise old mother is Nature--
She guideth her ...
She thinks she is pretty--look there!
How she ...
Hail, generous Corsica! Unconquered isle!
The...
Little chemic-artisan,
Doing work no other ca...
Brave little fellows in crimsons and yellows,
...
The Benedictine scents and stains
the languor ...
Is it the beauty of the flower,
Its honeyed s...
Weave on, poor insect! Weave on still,
Thy s...
My fancy's queen, the muse, one day,
Presse...
It is the time when birds are calling,
Each t...
But yesterday I passed this way,
And stopped ...
OPHELIA IN HAMLET. Adown the soft meadow, the...
At Killybegs above the crags
The gray gulls pi...
There's necromancy still!
The rathe marsh-mari...
Old friend, that with a pale and pensile grace...
Amid a crown of radiant hills,
A little wood ...
What shall I say of thee,
Flower all elusive,...