Love immortal and young in the endless succession of lovers . . . .

The young Endymion sleeps Endymion’s sleep . . .

He is the poet of the dawn . . . .

Since we parted, a month had passed—

Whose was the right and the wrong?

A woman of cloud and fire . . .

But I in June am midway to believe/A tree among my fair progenitors.

. . . a dream within a dream . . .

Only Priscilla averted her face from the spectre of terror . . . .

I have seen thee blossoming/Beside the snow-bank’s edges cold.

. . . a mere rush of foam/On the great sea beneath a sinking keel.

A cry of defiance, and not of fear . . . .

This backwoods Charlemagne of empires new . . .

‘Tis irrecoverable, that ancient faith . . .

And they talk of ventures lost or won . . . .

Forevermore, forevermore, the reign of violence is o’er!

This is not right, is not just, is not true to the best that is in you.

A little face at the window peers out into the night . . .