They say that lonely sorrows do no… More gently, I think, sorrows tog… A new one joins the funeral glidin… With less of jar than when it brea… Grief swages grief, and joy doth j…

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…

I dreamed of a song-I heard it su… In the ear of my soul its strange… What were its words I could not t… Only the voice I heard right well… For its tones unearthly my spirit…

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…

From out a windy cleft there comes… Of eyes unearthly, which go to and… Upon the people’s tumult, for belo… The nations smite each other: no a… Troubles their liquid rolling, or…

What dost thou here, O soul, Beyond thy own control, Under the strange wild sky? 0 stars, reach down your hands, And clasp me in your silver bands,

Mourn not, my friends, that we are… A fresher birth brings every new y… Years are Christ’s napkins to wip… See now, I’ll be to you an angel… My plumes are ruffled, and they sh…

‘What! you Dr. Doddridge’s dog, a… My little dog, who blessed you With such white toothy-pegs? And who was it that dressed you In such a lot of legs?

When things are holding wonted pac… In wonted paths, without a trace Or hint of neighbouring wonder, Sometimes, from other realms, a to… A scent, a vision, swift, alone,

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,

It’s all very well, Said the Bell, To be the big Organ below! But the folk come and go, Said the Bell,

One do I see and twelve; but seco… Methinks I know thee, thou belove… Not from thy nobler port, for ther… More quiet-featured: some there ar… Their message on their brows, whil…

Autumn clouds are flying, flying O’er the waste of blue; Summer flowers are dying, dying, Late so lovely new. Labouring wains are slowly rolling

I am a bubble Upon thy ever-moving, resting sea: Oh, rest me now from tossing, tres… Take me down into thee. Give me thy peace.