The summer day is closed, the sun is set: Well they have done their office, those bright hours, The latest of whose train goes softly out In the red West. The green blade of the ground...
In words like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, Like coarsest clothes against the cold; But that large grief which these enfold Is given in outline and no more. - TENNYSON. ...
An orator dismal of Nottinghamshire, Who has forty years let out his conscience to hire, Out of zeal for his country, and want of a place, Is come up, vi et armis, to break the queen's peace....
O hae ye heard the latest news O' Mistress Mucklewame? Her doctor hadna pickit up Her trouble here at hame, Sae they took her tae a speeshalist To fin' oot what was wrang,...
"Come right in. How are you, Fred? Find a chair, and get a light." "Well, old man, recovered yet From the Mather's jam last night?" "Didn't dance. The German's old."...
The sky is overcast With a continuous cloud of texture close, Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon, Which through that veil is indistinctly seen, A dull, contracted circle, yielding light...
Come out and walk. The last few drops of light Drain silently out of the cloudy blue; The trees are full of the dark-stooping night, The fields are wet with dew.
(He.) Never until this night have I been stirred. The elaborate starlight throws a reflection On the dark stream, Till all the eddies gleam; And thereupon there comes that scream...
It is the spot I came to seek, My fathers' ancient burial-place Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak, Withdrew our wasted race. It is the spot, I know it well, Of which our old traditions tell. ...
We wrote and sang of a bush we never Had known in youth in the Western land; Of the dear old homes by the shining river, The deep, clear creeks and the hills so grand....
We wrote and sang of a bush we never Had known in youth in the Western land; Of the dear old homes by the shining river, The deep, clear creeks and the hills so grand....
Oh! listen to the tale of little Annie Protheroe. She kept a small post-office in the neighbourhood of BOW; She loved a skilled mechanic, who was famous in his day -...
Once more, dear friends, you meet beneath A clouded sky Not yet the sword has found its sheath, And on the sweet spring airs the breath Of war floats by.
Hail native Language, that by sinews weak Didst move my first endeavouring tongue to speak, And mad'st imperfect words with childish tripps, Half unpronounc't, slide through my infant-lipps,...
Loud complaints being made in these quick-reading times, Of too slack a supply both of prose works and rhymes, A new Company, formed on the keep-moving plan, First proposed by the great firm of Catch-'em-who-can,...
Immortal eloquence of mystic Art! How strangely o'er oblivion and gray time, That hand doth speak, as in the painter's prime It uttered thus his own and Mary's heart,...