A Tortured tree in a huddled hollow, On whose gnarled boughs three leaves are blowing: A strip of path that the hunters follow, That leads to fields of the wind's wild sowing,...
They called Thee Merry England, in old time; A happy people won for thee that name With envy heard in many a distant clime; And, spite of change, for me thou keep'st the same...
From North and South, and East and West, They come! The sorely tried, the much oppressed, Their Faith and Love to manifest, They come! They come to tell of work well done,...
We zot bezide the leafy wall, Upon the bench at evenfall, While aunt led off our minds wrom ceare Wi' veairy teales, I can't tell where, An' vound us woone among her stock...
From the depths of the green garden-closes Where the summer in darkness dozes Till autumn pluck from his hand An hour-glass that holds not a sand; From the maze that a flower-belt encloses...
The year outgrows the spring it thought so sweet, And clasps the summer with a new delight, Yet wearied, leaves her languors and her heat When cool-browed autumn dawns upon his sight. ...
To-night I close my eyes and see A strange procession passing me, The years before I saw your face Go by me with a wistful grace; They pass, the sensitive, shy years,...
How do you know that the pilgrim track Along the belting zodiac Swept by the sun in his seeming rounds Is traced by now to the Fishes' bounds And into the Ram, when weeks of cloud...
I left the farm when mother died and changed my place of dwelling To daughter Susie's stylish house right on the city street: And there was them before I came that sort of scared me, telling...
Ah! There you are! I was certain I heard a strange voice from afar. Mamma calls me a pup, but I'm wiser than she; One ear cocked and I hear, half an eye and I see;...
When shall I see the white-thorn leaves agen, And yellowhammers gathering the dry bents By the dyke side, on stilly moor or fen, Feathered with love and nature's good intents?...
Who could describe you, child of mystery And silence, born among these solitudes? Within whose look there is a secrecy, Old as these wanderingwoods, And knowledge, cousin to the morning-star,...