My fairest child, I have no song to give you; No lark could pipe in skies so dull and gray; Yet, if you will, one quiet hint I'll leave you, For every day.
The church bells were ringing, the devil sat singing On the stump of a rotting old tree; 'Oh faith it grows cold, and the creeds they grow old, And the world is nigh ready for me.' ...
I heard an Eagle crying all alone Above the vineyards through the summer night, Among the skeletons of robber towers: Because the ancient eyrie of his race Was trenched and walled by busy-handed men;...
They drift away. Ah, God! they drift for ever. I watch the stream sweep onward to the sea, Like some old battered buoy upon a roaring river, Round whom the tide-waifs hang - then drift to sea. ...
Oh, Mr. Froude, how wise and good, To point us out this way to glory - They're no great shakes, those Snowdon Lakes, And all their pounders myth and story. Blow Snowdon! What's Lake Gwynant to Killarney,...
Yon sound's neither sheep-bell nor bark, They're running - they're running, Go hark! The sport may be lost by a moment's delay; So whip up the puppies and scurry away....
Three fishers went sailing away to the West, Away to the West as the sun went down; Each thought on the woman who loved him the best, And the children stood watching them out of the town;...