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Page 21 - Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood ? Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.
Page 22 - The windflower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; But on the hill the goldenrod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen.
Page 92 - And gentle odors led my steps astray, Mixed with a sound of waters murmuring Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling Its green arms round the bosom of the stream, But kissed it and then fled, as thou mightest in dream.
Page 48 - E'er wore his crown as loftily as he Wears the green coronal of leaves with which Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower With scented breath, and look so like a smile, Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould, An emanation of the indwelling Life, A visible token of the upholding Love, That are the soul of this wide universe.
Page 21 - 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 107 - To make the river flow. The clouds might give abundant rain, The nightly dews might fall, And the herb that keepeth life in man, Might yet have drunk them all. Then wherefore, wherefore were they made, All dyed with rainbow light, All...
Page 85 - O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise ; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies ! Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade ! By love's simplicity betray'd, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid Low i
Page 40 - O Maker of sweet poets, dear delight Of this fair world, and all its gentle livers ; Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers, Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling streams, Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams...
Page 35 - There was wide wand'ring for the greediest eye, To peer about upon variety ; Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim, And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim ; To picture out the quaint, and curious bending Of a fresh woodland alley, never-ending ; Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves, Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves.
Page 37 - Open afresh your round of starry folds, Ye ardent marigolds ! Dry up the moisture from your golden lids, For great Apollo bids That in these days your praises should be sung On many harps, which he has lately strung ; And when again your dewiness he kisses, Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses : So haply when I rove in some far vale, His mighty voice may come upon the gale.