Roars, howls, and stifled murmurs never cease;
Hell and its agonies seem hid below.
Thick rolls the mist, that smokes and falls in dew;
The trees and greenwood wear the deepest green.
Horrible mysteries in the gulph stare through,
Roars of a million tongues, and none knows what they mean.
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The beams in blossom with their spots of jet
The level meadow grass was in the swath;The hedge briar rose hung right across the path,White over with its flowers–the grass that layBleaching beneath the twittering heat to haySmelt so deliciously, the puzzled beeWent wondering where the honey sweets could be;And passer-bye along the level rowsStoopt down and whipt a bit beneath his nose.
The winter comes; I walk alone,
To those who keep their hearts their ownThe winter is the spring.No flowers to please–no bees to hum–The coming spring’s already come.I never want the Christmas roseTo come before its time;The seasons, each as God bestows,Are simple and sublime.I love to see the snowstorm hing;‘Tis but the winter garb of spring.I never want the grass…
I would not feign a single sigh
The soul within these orbs burns dry;A desert spreads where love should be.I would not be a worm to crawlA writhing suppliant in thy way;For love is life, is heaven, and allThe beams of an immortal day.For sighs are idle things and vain,And tears for idiots vainly fall.I would not kiss thy face againNor round…
On Martinmas eve the dogs did bark,
When every maiden went by with her sparkBut neer a one came to me.And O dear what will become of me?And O dear what shall I do,When nobody whispers to marry me–Nobody cometh to woo?None’s born for such troubles as I be:If the sun wakens first in the morn‘Lazy hussy’ my parents both call me,And…
Home furthest off grows dearer from the way;
Friends’ letters coming from his native placeWere like old neighbours with their country face.And every opportunity that cameOpened the sheet to gaze upon the nameOf that loved village where he left his sheepFor more contented peaceful folk to keep;And friendly faces absent many a yearWould from such letters in his mind appear.And when his pockets,…
He could not die when trees were green,
His little hands, when flowers were seen,Were held for the bluebell,As he was carried o’er the green.His eye glanced at the white-nosed bee;He knew those children of the spring:When he was well and on the leaHe held one in his hands to sing,Which filled his heart with glee.Infants, the children of the spring!How can an…