I climb the highest cliff; I hear the sound Of dashing waves; I gaze intent around; I mark the gray cope, and the hollowness Of heaven, and the great sun, that comes to bless...
I took it for a bird of prey that soared High over ocean, battled mount, and plain; 'Twas but a bird-moth, which with limp horns gored The invisibly obstructing window-pane! ...
At the grey dawn, amongst the felling leaves, A little bird outside my window swung, High on a topmost branch he trilled his song, And 'Ireland! Ireland! Ireland!' ever sung. ...
Here in this gold-green evening end, While air is soft and sky is clear, What tender message shall I send To her I hold so dear? What rose of song with breath like myrrh,...
When I look on thee and feel how dear, How pure, and how fair thou art, Into my eyes there steals a tear, And a shadow mingled of love and fear Creeps slowly over my heart. ...
When first I saw our banner wave Above the nation's council-hall, I heard beneath its marble wall The clanking fetters of the slave! In the foul market-place I stood, And saw the Christian mother sold,...
A book has been made for the King, A book of beauty and art; To the good king's eyes A smile shall rise Hiding the ache in his heart - Hiding the hurt and the grief As he turns it, leaf by leaf....
The little hands returning wistfully From birdlike wand'rings, ever come to rest, On fostering hand on tender cheek or breast; The upturned eyes, with loving certainty...
O child of mine, my little Son, alas! Beneath the sunlight of Thy gentle eyes, Too soon, too soon, what fateful shadows rise, Like night foretold in some sweet woodland glass?...
Behold! the Tabernacle of God's Will This woman's form enshrineth. What is this, More glorious than all our age-long bliss, Which shines within the shadow of her sill?...
Honor and pity for the smitten field, The valorous ranks mown down like precious corn, Whose want must famish love morn after morn, Till Death, the good physician, shall have healed...
St. Francis, Buddha, Tolstoi, and St. John - Friends, if you four, as pilgrims, hand in hand, Returned, the hate of earth once more to dare, And walked upon the water and the land, ...
And can this be my own world? 'Tis all gold and snow, Save where scarlet waves are hurled Down yon gulf below. 'Tis thy world, 'tis my world, City, mead, and shore, For he that hath his own world...
We went by ways of bygone days, Up mountain heights of story, Where lost in vague, historic haze, Tradition, crowned with battle-bays, Sat 'mid her ruins hoary.