Come up, dear chosen morning, come, Blessing the air with light, And bid the sky repent of being dark: Let all the spaces round the world be white, And give the earth her green again....
"They have no more wine!" she said. But they had enough of bread; And the vessels by the door Held for thirst a plenteous store: Yes, enough; but Love divine Turned the water into wine! ...
Bridegroom I give you my house and my lands, all golden with harvest; My sword, my shield, and my jewels, the spoils of my strife, My strength and my dreams, and aught I have gathered of glory,...
Come away, the clouds are high, Put the flashing needles by. Many days are not to spare, Or to waste, my fairest fair! All is ready. Come to-day, For the nightingale her lay,...
You almost heard the surface bake, and saw the gum-leaves turn, You could have watched the grass scorch brown had there been grass to burn. In such a drought the strongest heart might well grow faint and weak,...
He came from tumbled country past the humps of Buffalo Where the snow sits on the mountain 'n' the Summer aches below. He'd a silly name like Archie. Squattin' sullen on the ship,...
Adieu to France! Land of the Brave, farewell! Sleep sweetly there, thy sons will watch by thee, High as thy hills their burning blood will swell, To leave thee as they find thee, fair and free....
Were silver pink, and had a soul, Which soul were shy, which shyness might A visible influence be, and roll Through heaven and earth - 'twere thou, O light!
So one in heart and thought, I trow, That thou might'st press the strings and I might draw the bow And both would meet in music sweet, Thou and I, I trow.
Over the monstrous shambling sea, Over the Caliban sea, Bright Ariel-cloud, thou lingerest: Oh wait, oh wait, in the warm red West, - Thy Prospero I'll be.
The armies met on Marston Moor, 'Midst lightning's flash and thunder's roar; As murky clouds sweep o'er the sky, God's cannonade with man's will vie. The Royalists in phalanx strong,...
As the sky-brightening south-wind clears the day, And makes the mass'd clouds roll, The music of the lyre blows away The clouds that wrap the soul. ...
Next I saw A pensive gentleman of middle age, That leaned against a Druid oak, his pipe Pendent beneath his chin, a double one, (Meaning the pipe); reluctant was his breath,...
Sexton! Martha's dead and gone; Toll the bell! toll the bell! Her weary hands their labor cease; Good night, poor Martha, - sleep in peace! Toll the bell!
They's nothin' in the name to strike A feller more'n common like! 'Taint liable to git no praise Ner nothin' like it nowadays; An' yit that name o' her'n is jest As purty as the purtiest -...
The mountain brook sung lonesomelike, and loitered on its way Ez if it waited for a child to jine it in its play; The wild-flowers uv the hillside bent down their heads to hear...