How clear, how lovely bright, How beautiful to sight Those beams of morning play; How heaven laughs out with glee Where, like a bird set free,

O thou that from thy mansion Through time and place to roam, Dost send abroad thy children, And then dost call them home, That men and tribes and nations

Bring, in this timeless grave to t… No cypress, sombre on the snow; Snap not from the bitter yew His leaves that live December thr… Break no rosemary, bright with rim…

'Tis time, I think, by Wenlock to… The golden broom should blow; The hawthorn sprinkled up and down Should charge the land with snow. Spring will not wait the loiterer’…

You smile upon your friend to-day, To-day his ills are over; You hearken to the lover’s say, And happy is the lover. 'Tis late to hearken, late to smil…

From far, from eve and morning And yon twelve-winded sky, The stuff of life to knit me Blew hither: here am I. Now—for a breath I tarry

West and away the wheels of darkne… Day’s beamy banner up the east is… Spectres and fears, the nightmare… Drown in the golden deluge of the… But over sea and continent from si…

Be still, my soul, be still; the a… Earth and high heaven are fixt of… Think rather,—call to thought, if… The days when we had rest, O soul… Men loved unkindness then, but lig…

Stay, if you list, O passer by th… Yet night approaches; better not t… I never sigh, nor flush, nor knit… Nor grieve to think how ill God m… Here, with one balm for many fever…

The half-moon westers low, my love… And the wind brings up the rain; And wide apart lie we, my love, And seas between the twain. I know not if it rains, my love,

Ho, everyone that thirsteth And hath the price to give, Come to the stolen waters, Drink and your soul shall live. Come to the stolen waters,

The fairies break their dances And leave the printed lawn, And up from India glances The silver sail of dawn. The candles burn their sockets,

'Tis spring; come out to ramble The hilly brakes around, For under thorn and bramble About the hollow ground The primroses are found.

Westward on the high-hilled plains Where for me the world began, Still, I think, in newer veins Frets the changeless blood of man. Now that other lads than I

On your midnight pallet lying, Listen, and undo the door: Lads that waste the light in sighi… In the dark should sigh no more; Night should ease a lover’s sorrow…