I have been wandering where the daisies grow, Great fields of tall, white daisies, and I saw Them bend reluctantly, and seem to draw Away in pride when the fresh breeze would blow...
How is it that men pray their earthly lot May be 'content and happiness'? Dire foes Without one common trait which kinship shows I hold these two. Contentment comes when sought,...
Among the meadows of Life's sad unease In labor still renewing her soul's youth With trust, for patience, and with love, for peace, Singing she goes with the calm face of Ruth.
Happy the man that, when his day is done, Lies down to sleep with nothing of regret-- The battle he has fought may not be won-- The fame he sought be just as fleeting yet;...
Little I ask; my wants are few; I only wish a hut of stone, (A very plain brown stone will do,) That I may call my own; - And close at hand is such a one,...
Glad hours have been when I have seen Life's scope and each dry day's intent United; so that I could stand In silence, covering with my hand The circle of the universe,...
'Tis not the food, but the content That makes the table's merriment. Where trouble serves the board, we eat The platters there as soon as meat. A little pipkin with a bit Of mutton or of veal in it,...
No eve of summer ever can attain The gladness of that eve of late July, When 'mid the roses, filled with musk and rain, Against the wondrous topaz of the sky, I met you, leaning on the pasture bars, -...
If yo've a fancy for a spree, Goa up to Lundun, same as me, Yo'll find ther's lots o' things to see, To pleeas yo weel. If seem isn't quite enuff, Yo needn't tew an waste yor puff,...
In London I never know what I'd be at, Enraptured with this, and enchanted with that; I'm wild with the sweets of variety's plan, And life seems a blessing too happy for man. ...
Out of the gulf into the glory, Father, my soul cries out to be lifted. Dark is the woof of my dismal story, Thorough thy sun-warp stormily drifted!-- Out of the gulf into the glory,...
O Hunger, Hunger, I will harness thee And make thee harrow all my spirit's glebe. Of old the blind bard Herve sang so sweet He made a wolf to plow his land.
When I am in the Orient once again, And turn into the gay and squalid street, One side in the shadow, one in vivid heat, The thought of England, fresh beneath the rain, Will rise unbidden as a gently pain....