The landscape sleeps in mist from morn till noon; And, if the sun looks through, tis with a face Beamless and pale and round, as if the moon, When done the journey of her nightly race,...
Now is past--the happy now When we together roved Beneath the wildwood's oak-tree bough And Nature said we loved. Winter's blast The now since then has crept between, And left us both apart....
Poets love Nature, and themselves are love. Though scorn of fools, and mock of idle pride. The vile in nature worthless deeds approve, They court the vile and spurn all good beside....
Let brutish hearts, as hard as stones, Mock The weak Muse's tender moans, As now she wails o'er Titty's bones With anguish deep; Doubtless o'er parent's dying groans They'd little weep. ...
The prim daisy's golden eye On the fallow land doth lie, Though the Spring is just begun: Pewits watch it all the day, And the skylark's nest of hay Is there by its dried leaves in the sun. ...
"Tweet" pipes the robin as the cat creeps by Her nestling young that in the elderns lie, And then the bluecap tootles in its glee, Picking the flies from orchard apple tree,...
The bonny March morning is beaming In mingled crimson and grey, White clouds are streaking and creaming The sky till the noon of the day; The fir deal looks darker and greener,...
This is the month the nightingale, clod brown, Is heard among the woodland shady boughs: This is the time when in the vale, grass-grown, The maiden hears at eve her lover's vows,...
Up this green woodland-ride let's softly rove, And list the nightingale - she dwells just here. Hush ! let the wood-gate softly clap, for fear The noise might drive her from her home of love ;...
Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush, That overhung a molehill large and round, I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush Sing hymns to sunrise, and I drank the sound...
In life's first years as on a mother's breast, When Nature nurs'd me in her flowery pride, I cull'd her bounty, such as seemed best, And made my garlands by some hedge-row side:...
The heroes of the present and the past Were puny, vague, and nothingness to thee: Thou didst a span grasp mighty to the last, And strain for glory when thy die was cast....
The yellow lambtoe I have often got, Sweet creeping o'er the banks in summer-time, And totter-grass, in many a trembling knot; And robb'd the molehill of its bed of thyme:...
Autumn, I love thy parting look to view In cold November's day, so bleak and bare, When, thy life's dwindled thread worn nearly thro', With ling'ring, pott'ring pace, and head bleach'd bare,...