“The difference between you and her(whom I to you did once prefer)Is clear enough to settle:She like a diamond shone, but youShine like an early drop of dewPoised on a red rose petal.The dew-drop carries in its eyeMountain and forest, sea and sky,With every change of weather;Contrariwise, a diamond splitsThe prospect into idle bitsThat none can piece together.”

“Dust in a cloud, blinding weather,Drums that rattle and roar!A mother and daughter stood togetherBeside their cottage door.'Mother, the heavens are bright like brass,The dust is shaken high,With labouring breath the soldiers pass,Their lips are cracked and dry.''Mother, I'll throw them apples down,I'll bring them pails of water.'The mother turned with an angry frownHolding back her daughter.'But mother, see, they faint with thirst,They march away to die,''Ah, sweet, had I but known at firstTheir throats are always dry.''There is no water can supply themIn western streams that flow,There is no fruit can satisfy themOn orchard trees that grow.''Once in my youth I gave, poor fool,A soldier apples and water,So may I die before you coolYour father's drouth, my daughter.”

“Welsh Incident 'But that was nothing to what things came outFrom the sea-caves of Criccieth yonder.'What were they? Mermaids? dragons? ghosts?'Nothing at all of any things like that.'What were they, then?' 'All sorts of queer things,Things never seen or heard or written about,Very strange, un-Welsh, utterly peculiarThings. Oh, solid enough they seemed to touch,Had anyone dared it. Marvellous creation,All various shapes and sizes, and no sizes,All new, each perfectly unlike his neighbour,Though all came moving slowly out together.'Describe just one of them.' 'I am unable.'What were their colours?' 'Mostly nameless colours,Colours you'd like to see; but one was puceOr perhaps more like crimson, but not purplish.Some had no colour.' 'Tell me, had they legs?'Not a leg or foot among them that I saw.'But did these things come out in any order?'What o'clock was it? What was the day of the week?Who else was present? How was the weather?'I was coming to that. It was half-past threeOn Easter Tuesday last. The sun was shining.The Harlech Silver Band played Marchog JesuOn thrity-seven shimmering instrumentsCollecting for Caernarvon's (Fever) Hospital Fund.The populations of Pwllheli, Criccieth,Portmadoc, Borth, Tremadoc, Penrhyndeudraeth,Were all assembled. Criccieth's mayor addressed themFirst in good Welsh and then in fluent English,Twisting his fingers in his chain of office,Welcoming the things. They came out on the sand,Not keeping time to the band, moving seawardSilently at a snail's pace. But at lastThe most odd, indescribable thing of allWhich hardly one man there could see for wonderDid something recognizably a something.'Well, what?' 'It made a noise.' 'A frightening noise?'No, no.' 'A musical noise? A noise of scuffling?'No, but a very loud, respectable noise ---Like groaning to oneself on Sunday morningIn Chapel, close before the second psalm.'What did the mayor do?' 'I was coming to that.”

“Manticor in Arabia(The manticors of the montainesMighte feed them on thy braines.--Skelton.)Thick and scented daisies spreadWhere with surface dull like leadArabian pools of slime inviteManticors down from neighbouring heightTo dip heads, to cool fiery bloodIn oozy depths of sucking mud.Sing then of ringstraked manticor,Man-visaged tiger who of yoreHeld whole Arabian waste in feeWith raging pride from sea to sea,That every lesser tribe would flyThose armed feet, that hooded eye;Till preying on himself at lastManticor dwindled, sank, was passedBy gryphon flocks he did disdain.Ay, wyverns and rude dragons reignIn ancient keep of manticorAgreed old foe can rise no more.Only here from lakes of slimeDrinks manticor and bides due time:Six times Fowl Phoenix in yon treeMust mount his pyre and burn and beRenewed again, till in such hourAs seventh Phoenix flames to powerAnd lifts young feathers, overniceFrom scented pool of steamy spiceShall manticor his sway restoreAnd rule Arabian plains once more.”

“You mean that people who continue virtuous in an old-fashioned way must inevitably suffer in times like these?”

“Call it a good marriage -For no one ever questionedHer warmth, his masculinity,Their interlocking views;Except one stray graphologistWho frowned in speculationAt her h's and her s's,His p's and w's.Though few would still subscribeTo the monogamic axiomThat strife below the hip-bonesNeed not estrange the heart,Call it a good marriage:More drew those two together,Despite a lack of children,Than pulled them apart.Call it a good marriage:They never fought in public,They acted circumspectlyAnd faced the world with pride;Thus the hazards of their love-bedWere none of our damned business -Till as jurymen we sat onTwo deaths by suicide.”

“As I walked out one harvest nightAbout the stroke of One,The Moon attained to her full heightStood beaming like the Sun.She exorcised the ghostly wheatTo mute assent in Love's defeatWhose tryst had now begun.The fields lay sick beneath my tread,A tedious owlet cried;The nightingale above my headWith this or that replied,Like man and wife who nightly keepInconsequent debate in sleepAs they dream side by side.Your phantom wore the moon's cold mask,My phantom wore the same,Forgetful of the feverish taskIn hope of which they came,Each image held the other's eyesAnd watched a grey distraction riseTo cloud the eager flame.To cloud the eager flame of love,To fog the shining gate:They held the tyrannous queen aboveSole mover of their fate,They glared as marble statues glareAcross the tessellated stairOr down the Halls of State.And now cold earth was Arctic sea,Each breath came dagger keen,Two bergs of glinting ice were we,The broad moon sailed between;There swam the mermaids, tailed and finned,And Love went by upon the windAs though it had not been.- Full Moon”