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| The brook along the Romsey road |
3 |
| A portly Wood-louse, full of cares |
5 |
| When the wind blows without the garden walls |
7 |
| How late in the wet twilight doth that bird |
8 |
| Of Sorrow, ’tis as Saints have said |
9 |
| Within our garden walls you see |
10 |
| The fuchsias dangle on their stem |
11 |
| My night-dress hangs on fire-guard rail |
12 |
| While I stand upon the pavement and I dress the dusty stall |
13 |
| When by the fire-light Dulcibel |
15 |
| Whom meet we, Betsey, in the wood? |
16 |
| How few alack |
17 |
| ’Tis the old wife at Rickling, she |
19 |
| Pull out my couch across the fire |
21 |
| When the Wind comes up the lane |
22 |
| What dusky branches fret the yellow sky |
23 |
| Three candles had her cake |
25 |
| The Baby slumbers through the night |
26 |
| With a full house of other folks |
27 |
| He who a mangold-patch doth hoe |
30 |
| Throw up the cinders, let the night wear through |
31
|
| When elm-buds turn from red to green |
32 |
| Vainly, my Betsey, to the weeping day |
34 |
| O the trucks that leave Southampton bring a smell of twine and tar |
36 |
| When the young Spring in Betsey’s fingers sets |
38 |
| Permit, Dear Sir, that the judicious grieve |
39 |
| ’Twas bought in Bruges, the shop was poor |
41 |
| The sun sank, and the wind uprist whose note |
43 |
| My Betsey-Jane it would not do |
45 |
| In Bethlehem Town by lantern light |
46 |
| Playthings my Betsey hath, the snail’s cast shell |
48 |
| I am not lightly moved, my grief was dumb |
49 |
| You taught me ways of gracefulness and fashions of address |
51 |
| You that have fenced about my storm-swept ways |
52 |
| Pardon, Dear Sir, if with intrusive pen |
53 |
| When I was small, great joy it was to see |
56 |
| We came on Christmas Day |
57 |
| On the high frosty fields afoot at dawn |
59 |
| Now night hath fallen on the little town |
60 |
| Dear, the delightful world I see |
61 |
| So ’tis your will to have a cell |
63 |
| My Sorrow diligent would sweep |
65 |
| Here lies A. B. who, four years from her birth |
67 |
| On the painted bridge at Mottisfont above the Test I’ve stood |
70
|
| It is told of the painter Da Vinci |
72 |
| Follow, my Betsey-Jane, as best you can |
75 |
| Scarce hath the crookèd scythe |
77 |
| Four-paws, the kitten from the farm |
79 |
| Four-paws, we know the sun is white |
81 |
| Time, cunning smith, hath set you in my heart |
83 |
| I saw myself encircled in the grey |
84 |
| Now candle-flames disperse the rout |
86 |
| In Sarum Close, when she had said her say |
87 |
| O thou who ’neath the umbrageous trees |
88 |
| The world’s a quarry for whose spoils |
89 |
| Whiffin, with all thy faults, I love thee still |
90 |
| An old white Jocko, kindly and urbane |
91 |
| By brook and bent |
98 |
| So now my Thames is fairly on the turn |
100 |
| So, dear, have you and Nurse conspired |
101 |
| Four alders guard a bridge of planks |
103 |
| Quite given o’er to shameful destinies |
105 |
| O valiant reach of land that doth include |
105 |
| The shop-girl in my fingers laid |
107 |
| The common pavement dull and grey |
108 |
| She ate her oat-cake by the fire |
109 |
| Here, Betsey, where the sainfoin blows |
110 |
| You to whose soul a death propitious brings |
112
|
| The mallow blooms in late July |
117 |
| Now Hertha hath, without a doubt |
118 |
| Prythee what mad contentments canst thou find |
119 |
| When Sir Matho lay a-dying and his feet were growing cold |
120 |
| Yourself in bed |
124 |
| Lord, when to Thine embrace I run |
126 |
