He comes on chosen evenings, My blackbird bountiful, and sings Over the gardens of the town Just at the hour the sun goes down… His flight across the chimneys thi…

“Hush!” was my whisper At the stair-top When the waggoners were down below Home from the barley-crop. Through the high window

His wage of rest at nightfall stil… He takes, who sixty years has know… Of ploughing over Cotsall hill And keeping trim the Cotsall ston… He meditates the dusk, and sees

Come down at dawn from windless hi… Into the valley of the lake, Where yet a larger quiet fills The hour, and mist and water make With rocks and reeds and island bo…

Come, sweetheart, listen, for I h… Most wonderful to tell you —news o… Albeit winter still is in the air, And the earth troubled, and the br… Yet down the fields to-day I saw…

The sacrament of bough and blade, Of populous folds and building bir… I take, till now an end is made Of praise and ceremonial words, And I too turn myself to keep

I do not think that skies and mead… Moral, or that the fixture of a st… Comes of a quiet spirit, or that t… Have wisdom in their windless sile… Yet these are things invested in m…

For peace, than knowledge more des… Into your Sussex quietness I came… When summer’s green and gold and a… Over the world in flame. « And peace upon your pasture-lands…

LORD, not for light in darkness… Not that the veil be lifted from o… Nor that the slow ascension of our… Be otherwise. Not for a clearer vision of the th…

I was in the woods to-day, And the leaves were spinning there… Rich apparelled in decay, — In decay more wholly fair Than in life they ever were.

Though summer long delayeth Her blue and golden boon, Yet now at length she stayeth Her wings above the noon; She sets the waters dreaming

He was a man with wide and patient… Grey, like the drift of twitch-fir… That, without fearing, searched if… Might threaten from your heart. G… Under a brow was drawn because he…

High up in the sky there, now, you… In this May twilight, our cottage… Tenantless, and no creature there… Near it but Mrs. Fry’s fat cows,… Dove-coloured, as is Cotswold. No…

Now Love, her mantle thrown, Goes naked by, Threading the woods alone, Her royal eye Happy because the primroses again

Sweet in the rushes The reed-singers make A music that hushes The life of the lake; The leaves are dumb,