- To A Dead Poet
I speak your name-a magic thing-
Jocund April takes my hand,
Golden birds begin to sing,
Laughter fills the silver land....
- To A Portrait Of Whistler In The Brooklyn Art Museum
What waspish whim of Fate
Was this that bade you here
Hold dim, unhonored state,
No single courtier near?...
- The Dream Of Aengus Og
When the rose of Morn through the Dawn was breaking,
And white on the hearth was last night's flame,
Thither to me ‘twixt sleeping and waking,
Singing out of the mists she came....