Henry Clifford

Henry Clifford: Prelude

Henry Clifford: Dance of the fairies

Henry Clifford: Sloes are blossoming in the hedges

Henry Clifford: Spirits of the flowers truant from honeyed cages

Henry Clifford: Our Lady of Bolton preserve thee, Henry mine!

Henry Clifford: Sweet are the visions, mysteriously stealing.

Henry Clifford: O Mother, why didst thou deny my longing for the fray?

Henry Clifford: Lovely vision, dream delightful, wilt thou vanish