October - and the skies are cool and gray O'er stubbles emptied of their latest sheaf, Bare meadow, and the slowly falling leaf. The dignity of woods in rich decay Accords full well with this majestic grief...
A wild west Coast, a little Town, Where little Folk go up and down, Tides flow and winds blow: Night and Tempest and the Sea, Human Will and Human Fate: What is little, what is great?...
Oh, lovely Mary Donnelly, my joy, my only best If fifty girls were round you, I'd hardly see the rest; Be what it may the time o' day, the place be where it will...
With grief and mourning I sit to spin; My Love passed by, and he didn't come in; He passes by me, both day and night, And carries off my poor heart's delight.
Little Cowboy, what have you heard, Up on the lonely rath's green mound? Only the plaintive yellow bird Sighing in sultry fields around, Chary, chary, chary, chee-ee!, Only the grasshopper and the bee?,...
Doleful was the land, Dull on, every side, Neither soft n'or grand, Barren, bleak, and wide; Nothing look'd with love; All was dingy brown; The very skies above Seem'd to sulk and frown. ...
Within a budding grove, In April's ear sang every bird his best, But not a song to pleasure my unrest, Or touch the tears unwept of bitter love; Some spake, methought, with pity, some as if in jest....
These little Songs, Found here and there, Floating in air By forest and lea, Or hill-side heather, In houses and throngs, Or down by the sea, Have come together, How, I can't tell:...