Thou art the music that I hear in… The poetry that lures me on in dre… The magic, thou, that holds my tho… Of young romance in revery’s mysti… The lily’s aura, and the damask de…

There was moonlight in the garden… There was scent of pink and peony… When adown the pathway whitely, wh… She came stepping, oh, so lightly, To the old gate made of pickets.

She took her babe, the child of sh… And wrapped it warmly in her shawl… From house to house for work. Pro… A look of wonder on her; raised a… Of Christian outrage. None would…

I am a part of all you see In Nature; part of all you feel: I am the impact of the bee Upon the blossom; in the tree I am the sap,-that shall reveal

Were I an artist, Lydia, I Would paint you as you merit, Not as my eyes, but dreams, descry… Not in the flesh, but spirit. The canvas I would paint you on

There was once a little boy— So my father told me—who Never cared for any toy, But just sweet things, as boys do, Cakes and comfits, cream and ice,

Ever since man was man a Fiend ha… Outside his House of Good, War, with his terrible toys, that… To follow murderous arts. His spurs, death-won, are but of l…

Morning Her rain-kissed face is fresh as r… Is cool and fresh as a rain-wet le… She glimmers at my window-pane, And all my grief

What will you send her, What will you tell her, That shall unbend her, That shall compel her? Love, that shall fold her

My nurse she tells me stories, too… To make me good, she says; but I She scares me so! I want to cry: And if my father ever knew, I guess he’d make things pretty ho…

THERE is no rhyme that is half s… As the song of the wind in the rip… There is no metre that ’s half so… As the lilt of the brook under roc… And the loveliest lyric I ever he…

O roads, O paths, O ways that lea… Through woods where all the oak-tr… With autumn! and the frosty reds Of fallen leaves make whispering b… For winds to toss and turn upon,

There is no inspiration in the vie… From where this acorn drops its th… The landscape stretches like a sha… The wrinkled hills hang haggard an… Above them hollows the heaven’s st…

In classic beauty, cold, immaculat… A voiceful sculpture, stern and st… Upon her brow deep-chiselled love… That sorrow o’er dead roses in her…

Once when it had rained all night And all day, the next day, why, In our yard, a lot of white, Dumpy toadstools grew close by Our old peach tree: some were high…