O Lord, my God, how long Shall my poor heart pant for a bou… How long, O mighty Spirit, shall… The murmur of Truth’s crystal wat… From the deep caverns of their end…

Here much and little shift and cha… With scale of need and time; There more and less have meanings… Which the world cannot rime. Sickness may be more hale than hea…

Little Bo-Peep, she has lost her… And will not know where to find th… They are over the height and out o… Trailing their tails behind them! Little Bo-Peep woke out of her sl…

Oh that a wind would call From the depths of the leafless wo… Oh that a voice would fall On the ear of my solitude! Far away is the sea,

Hears’t thou the dash of water, lo… With its perpetual tidings upward… Struggling against the wind? Oh,… For not in vain from its portentou… Thy heart, wild stream, hath yearn…

It is no winter night comes down Upon our hearts, dear friends of o… But a May evening, softly brown, Whose wind is rather cold. We are not, like yon sad-eyed Wes…

THOU art of this world, Christ.… Thou know’st our evens, our morns,… How moons, and hearts, and seasons… How we grow weary plodding on the… Of future joy how present pain ber…

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.

There is a river whose waters run asleep run run ever singing in the shallows dumb in the hollows

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…

In the winter, flowers are springi… In the winter, woods are green, Where our banished birds are singi… Where our summer sun is seen! Our cold midnights are coeval

When thou turn’st away from ill, Christ is this side of thy hill. When thou turnest toward good, Christ is walking in thy wood. When thy heart says, ‘Father, par…

No bird can sing in tune but that… Sits throned in equity above the h… And holds the righteous balance al… No heart can true response to love… Wherein from one to eight not ever…

My wife contrived a fleecy thing Her husband to infold, For ’tis the pride of woman still To cover from the cold: My daughter made it a new text

Lord, hear my discontent: all blan… A mirror polished by thy hand; Thy sun’s beams flash and flame fr… I cannot help it: here I stand, t… To one of them I cannot say,