The miser lay on his lonely bed; Life's candle was burning dim. His heart in an iron chest was hid Under heaps of gold and an iron lid; And whether it were alive or dead It never troubled him. ...
When the summer gave us a longer day, And the leaves were thickest, I went away: Like an isle, through dark clouds, of the infinite blue, Was that summer-ramble from London and you. ...
I am weary, and very lonely, And can but think--think. If there were some water only That a spirit might drink--drink, And arise, With light in the eyes And a crown of hope on the brow,...
Ance was a woman wha's hert was gret; Her love was sae dumb it was 'maist a grief; She brak the box--it's tellt o' her yet-- The bonny box for her hert's relief.
A tattered soldier, gone the glow and gloss, With wounds half healed, and sorely trembling knee, Homeward I come, to claim no victory-cross: I only faced the foe, and did not flee.
If I were a monk, and thou wert a nun, Pacing it wearily, wearily, Twixt chapel and cell till day were done-- Wearily, wearily-- How would it fare with these hearts of ours...
In the winter, flowers are springing; In the winter, woods are green, Where our banished birds are singing, Where our summer sun is seen! Our cold midnights are coeval With an evening and a morn...
Yes, Master, when thou comest thou shalt find A little faith on earth, if I am here! Thou know'st how oft I turn to thee my mind. How sad I wait until thy face appear! ...
'Tis a little room, my friend; A baby-walk from end to end; All the things look sadly real, This hot noontide's Unideal. Seek not refuge at the casement, There's no pasture for amazement...
One is a slow and melancholy maid; I know riot if she cometh from the skies Or from the sleepy gulfs, but she will rise Often before me in the twilight shade,...
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....
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...