That shakes and swees awhile, but still keeps straight;
While arching oxeye doubles with his weight.
Next on the cat-tail-grass with farther bound
He springs, that bends until they touch the ground.
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Harvest awakes the morning still
Deserted is each cottage hearthTo all life save the crickets mirthEach burring wheel their sabbath meetsNor walks a gossip in the streetsThe bench beneath its eldern boughLined oer with grass is empty nowWhere blackbirds caged from out the sunCould whistle while their mistress spun.All haunt the thronged fields still to shareThe harvests lingering bounty thereAs…
Timid and smiling, beautiful and shy,
Afraid of praise she hurries down the streetsAnd turns away from every smile she meets.The forward clown has many things to sayAnd holds her by the gown to make her stay,The picture of good health she goes along,Hale as the morn and happy as her song.Yet there is one who never feels a fearTo whisper…
I am: yet what I am none cares or knows,
I am the self-consumer of my woes,They rise and vanish in oblivious host,Like shades in love and death’s oblivion lost;And yet I am! and live with shadows tostInto the nothingness of scorn and noise,Into the living sea of waking dreams,Where there is neither sense of life nor joys,But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems;And…
Well, honest John, how fare you now at home?
The old cock-robin to the sty is come,With olive feathers and its ruddy breast;And the old cock, with wattles and red comb,Struts with the hens, and seems to like some best,Then crows, and looks about for little crumbs,Swept out by little folks an hour ago;The pigs sleep in the sty; the bookman comes–The little boy…
Love, meet me in the green glen,
Where the sweetbriar smells so sweet agen;There come with me.Meet me in the green glen.Meet me at the sunsetDown in the green glen,Where we’ve often metBy hawthorn-tree and foxes’ den,Meet me in the green glen.Meet me in the green glen,By sweetbriar bushes there;Meet me by your own sen,Where the wild thyme blossoms fair.Meet me in…
True as the church clock hand the hour pursues
And at the blacksmith’s shop his hour will standTo talk of ‘Lunun’ as a foreign land.For from his cottage door in peace or strifeHe neer went fifty miles in all his life.His knowledge with old notions still combinedIs twenty years behind the march of mind.He views new knowledge with suspicious eyesAnd thinks it blasphemy to…