Ah ! ... : Old age has brought to me. Thy wisdom, less thy certainty: The world's a jest, and joy's a trinket: I knew that once: but now - I think it...

Two voices are there: one is of the deep;
It learns the storm-cloud's thunderous melody,
Now roars, now murmurs with the changing sea,
Now bird-like pipes, now closes soft in sleep;
And one is of an old half-witted sheep
Which bleats articulate monotony,
And indicates that two and one are three,
That grass is green, lakes damp, and mountains
Steep and, Wordsworth, both are thine...

Dreams

Will there never come a season
Which shall rid us from the curse
Of a prose which knows no reason
And an unmelodious verse...
When there stands a muzzled stripling,
Mute, beside a muzzled bore:
When the Rudyard's cease from Kipling
And the Haggard s ride no more.