There is a river whose waters run asleep run run ever singing in the shallows dumb in the hollows sleeping so deep and all the swallows that dip their feathers in the hollows...
O do not leave me, mother, lest I weep; Till I forget, be near me in that chair. The mother's presence leads her down to sleep-- Leaves her contented there.
Loosener of springs, he died by thee! Softness, not hardness, sent him home; He loved thee--and thou mad'st him free Of all the place thou comest from!
I. I honour Nature, holding it unjust To look with jealousy on her designs; With every passing year more fast she twines About my heart; with her mysterious dust Claim I a fellowship not less august...
Sad-hearted, be at peace: the snowdrop lies Buried in sepulchre of ghastly snow; But spring is floating up the southern skies, And darkling the pale snowdrop waits below. ...
O lassie ayont the hill, Come ower the tap o' the hill, Come ower the tap wi' the breeze o' the hill, Bidena ayont the hill! I'm needin ye sair the nicht, For I'm tired and sick o' mysel....
This is the sweetness of an April day; The softness of the spring is on the face Of the old year. She has no natural grace, But something comes to her from far away ...
Whence do ye come, ye creatures? Each of you Is perfect as an angel! wings and eyes Stupendous in their beauty--gorgeous dyes In feathery fields of purple and of blue! Would God I saw a moment as ye do!...
I have a fellowship with every shade Of changing nature: with the tempest hour My soul goes forth to claim her early dower Of living princedom; and her wings have staid Amidst the wildest uproar undismayed!...
Hears't thou the dash of water, loud and hoarse, With its perpetual tidings upward climb, Struggling against the wind? Oh, how sublime! For not in vain from its portentous source...
O wind of God, that blowest in the mind, Blow, blow and wake the gentle spring in me; Blow, swifter blow, a strong warm summer wind, Till all the flowers with eyes come out to see;...
Merry, merry we well may be, For Jesus Christ is come down to see: Long before, at the top of the stair, He set our angels a waiting there, Waiting hither and thither to fly,...
With us there is no gray fearing, With us no aching for lack! For the morn it is always nearing, And the night is at our back. At times a song will fall dumb, A thought-bell burst in a sigh,...