A song in a cornfield Where corn begins to fall, Where reapers are reaping, Reaping one, reaping all. Sing pretty Lettice, Sing Rachel, sing May; Only Marian cannot sing...
Some are laughing, some are weeping; She is sleeping, only sleeping. Round her rest wild flowers are creeping; There the wind is heaping, heaping Sweetest sweets of Summer's keeping....
Frost-locked all the winter, Seeds, and roots, and stones of fruits, What shall make their sap ascend That they may put forth shoots? Tips of tender green, Leaf, or blade, or sheath;...
To think that this meaningless thing was ever a rose Scentless, colorless, this! Will it ever be thus (who knows?) Thus with our bliss, If we wait till the close? ...
The sweetest blossoms die. And so it was that, going day by day Unto the church to praise and pray, And crossing the green churchyard thoughtfully, I saw how on the graves the flowers...
I watched a rosebud very long Brought on by dew and sun and shower, Waiting to see the perfect flower: Then, when I thought it should be strong, It opened at the matin hour And fell at evensong. ...
I wonder if the sap is stirring yet, If wintry birds are dreaming of a mate, If frozen snowdrops feel as yet the sun And crocus fires are kindling one by one: Sing, robin, sing;...
Vanity of vanities, the Preacher saith, All things are vanity. The eye and ear Cannot be filled with what they see and hear. Like early dew, or like the sudden breath...
Till all sweet gums and juices flow, Till the blossom of blossoms blow, The long hours go and come and go, The bride she sleepeth, waketh, sleepeth, Waiting for one whose coming is slow: -...
By day she woos me, soft, exceeding fair: But all night as the moon so changeth she; Loathsome and foul with hideous leprosy And subtle serpents gliding in her hair. By day she woos me to the outer air,...
All her corn-fields rippled in the sunshine, All her lovely vines, sweets-laden, bowed; Yet some weeks to harvest and to vintage: When, as one man's hand, a cloud...
"Arise, depart, for this is not your rest." Oh, burden of all burdens, - still to arise And still depart, nor rest in any wise! Rolling, still rolling thus to east from west,...
Ah, woe is me for pleasure that is vain, Ah, woe is me for glory that is past: Pleasure that bringeth sorrow at the last, Glory that at the last bringeth no gain! So saith the sinking heart; and so again...
Why has Spring one syllable less Than any its fellow season? There may be some other reason, And I'm merely making a guess; But surely it hoards such wealth Of happiness, hope and health,...
I tell my secret? No indeed, not I: Perhaps some day, who knows? But not to-day; it froze, and blows, and snows, And you're too curious: fie! You want to hear it? well:...