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A. H. Clough Autumn beauty beneath birds blue bough bower breast breath breeze bright brook buds busy bee calm Christina Rossetti cloud curious pastime dead deep delight doth dream earth faint fair fall feet float flowers forest frae fresh gale gentle glad gleam glen glowworm golden grass green grove happy hath hear heard heart heaven hills Isa Craig lazy Kate leaf leaves light LIME BLOSSOMS lonely look loud March month mocketh moon morning mountain murmuring N. P. Willis nest night nightingale nook o'er ocean pale rain rest rills river round S. T. Coleridge shade shine silent sing skies sleep smile snow soft song spring stars stream summer sweet swelling thee ther things thou art thou busy thought thunder tree Tu-whoo vale voice vrom wake waves wild wind wings winter woods yarms
Page 25 - Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower, Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: Like a glowworm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hue Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view...
Page 93 - And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease; For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.
Page 93 - Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue...
Page 26 - What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain ? What fields, or waves, or mountains ? What shapes of sky or plain ? What love of thine own kind ? what ignorance of pain ? With thy clear, keen joyance Languor cannot be : Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee : Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Page 114 - The melancholy days are come, The saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, And meadows brown and sere. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, The autumn leaves lie dead ; They rustle to the eddying gust, And to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, And from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow, Through all the gloomy day.
Page 24 - HAIL to thee, blithe spirit ! Bird thou never wert, That from heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire...
Page 37 - Who slept in buds the day, And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge And sheds the freshening dew, and lovelier still The pensive Pleasures sweet, Prepare thy shadowy car. Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene; Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells, Whose walls more awful nod By thy religious gleams.
Page 17 - I gazed— and gazed— but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.
Page 30 - Here are sweet peas, on tip-toe for a flight : With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings.