There's no wind along these seas, Out oars for Stavanger! Forward all for Stavanger! So we must wake the white-ash breeze. Let fall for Stavanger! A long pull for Stavanger! ...
Those days have gone, those happy days, When we two loved to roam, Beside the rivulet that strays, Near by my rustic home. Yes, they have fled, and in the past, We've left them far behind,...
Those evening bells! those evening bells! How many a tale their music tells, Of youth and home and that sweet time When last I heard their soothing chime.
Old Ivan McIvanovitch, with knitted brow of care, Has climbed up from the engine-room to get a breath of air; He slowly wipes the grease and sweat from hairy face and neck....
What if I bade you leave The cavern of the mind? There's better exercise In the sunlight and wind. I never bade you go To Moscow or to Rome. Renounce that drudgery, Call the Muses home....
The shearers sat in the firelight, hearty and hale and strong, After the hard day's shearing, passing the joke along: The "ringer" that shore a hundred, as they never were shorn before,...
She has gone for ever from earth away, Yet those tiny fingers haunt me still; In the silent night, when the moons pale ray, Silvers the leaves on the window sill. Just between sleeping and waking I lie,...
As on I drive, in my heart joy dwells Of Sabbath silence with sound of bells. The sun lifts all that is living, growing, God's love itself in its symbol showing....
Those words were uttered as in pensive mood We turned, departing from that solemn sight: A contrast and reproach to gross delight, And life's unspiritual pleasures daily wooed!...
Tho' the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see, Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me; In exile thy bosom shall still be my home, And thine eyes make my climate wherever we room. ...
Tho' 'tis all but a dream at the best, And still, when happiest, soonest o'er, Yet, even in a dream, to be blest Is so sweet, that I ask for no more. The bosom that opes With earliest hopes,...
Cry out upon the crime, and then let slip The dogs of hate, whose hanging muzzles track The bloody secret; let the welkin crack Reverberating, while ye dance and skip...
Thou art to me As are soft breezes to a summer sea; As stars unto the night; Or when the day is born, As sunrise to the morn; As peace unto the fading of the light.
Thou bidst me sing the lay I sung to thee In other days ere joy had left this brow; But think, tho' still unchanged the notes may be, How different feels the heart that breathes them now!...
When in summer thou walkest In the meads by the river, And to thyself talkest, Dost thou think of one ever-- A lost and a lorn one That adores thee and loves thee? And when happy morn's gone,...
Though all great deeds were proved but fables fine, Though earth's old story could be told anew, Though the sweet fashions loved of them that sue Were empty as the ruined Delphian shrine -...