O Lord of life, thy quickening vo… Awakes my morning song! In gladsome words I would rejoice That I to thee belong. I see thy light, I feel thy wind;

Rose o’ my hert, Open yer leaves to the lampin mune… Into the curls lat her keek an’ de… She’ll tak the colour but gie ye t… Buik o’ my brain,

The sun is gone down And the moon’s in the sky But the sun will come up And the moon be laid by. The flower is asleep.

She knelt, she bore a bold request… Though shy to speak it out: Ambition, even in mother’s breast, Before him stood in doubt. ‘What is it?’ ‘Grant thy promise…

Still am I haunting Thy door with my prayers; Still they are panting Up thy steep stairs! Wouldst thou not rather

I follow, tottering, in the funera… That bears my body to the welcomin… As those I mourn not, that entomb… But smile as those that lay aside… To me it is a thing of poor disdai…

Days of old, Ye are not dead, though gone from… Ye are not cold, But like the summer-birds fled o’e… The sun brings back the swallows f…

Though in my heart no Christmas g… Though my song-bird be dumb, Jesus, it is enough for me That thou art come. What though the loved be scattered…

O Lord, I cannot but believe The birds do sing thy praises then… And they are lying seed-sown land… Their little bosoms breeding songs… If thou hadst finished me, O Lord…

Thy world is made to fit thine own… A nursery for thy children small, The playground-footstool of thy th… Thy solemn school-room, Father of… When day is done, in twilight’s gl…

Summer is come again. The sun is… And the soft wind is breathing. A… Is sparkling in thine eyes, and in… My soul is shining. Come; our day… Shall be to revel in unlikely thin…

They are blind, and they are dead: We will wake them as we go; There are words have not been said… There are sounds they do not know: We will pipe and we will sing–

Chained is the Spring. The Night… Blows over the hard earth; Time is not more confused and cold… Nor keeps more wintry mirth. Yet blow, and roll the world about…

A power is on me, and my soul must… To thee, thou grey, grey man, whom… With those white-headed children.… To commune with thy setting, and t… My doubts on thy grey hair; for I…

My Lily snatches not my gift; Glad is she to be fed, But to her mouth she will not lift The piece of broken bread, Till on my lips, unerring, swift,