A day of gladness yet will dawn, Though when I cannot say; Perhaps it may be Thursday week, Perhaps some other day,— When man, freed from the bond of c…

Never was sun so bright before, No matin of the lark so sweet, No grass so green beneath my feet, Nor with such dewdrops jewelled o’… I stand with thee outside the door…

Love, we have heard together The North Sea sing his tune, And felt the wind’s wild feather Brush past our cheeks at noon, And seen the cloudy weather

You found my life, a poor lame bir… That had no heart to sing, You would not speak the magic word To give it voice and wing. Yet sometimes, dreaming of that ho…

My Lady of all ladies! Queen by r… Of tender beauty; full of gentle m… With eyes that look divine beatitu… Large eyes illumined with her spir… Lips that are lovely both by sound…

Oh, who may this dead warrior be That to his grave they bring? ’Tis William, Duke of Normandy, The conqueror and king. Across the sea, with fire and swor…

There’s a fiddler in the street, And the children all are dancing: Two dozen lightsome feet Springing and prancing. Pleasure he gives to you,

Song is not dead, although to-day Men tell us everything is said. There yet is something left to say… Song is not dead. While still the evening sky is red…

When the weary night is fled, And the morning sky is red, Then my heart doth rise and say, ‘Surely she will come to-day.’ In the golden blaze of noon,

Fickle Summer’s fled away, Shall we see her face again? Hearken to the weeping rain, Never sunbeam greets the day. More inconstant than the May,

Be ye happy, if ye may, In the years that pass away. Ye shall pass and be forgot, And your place shall know you not. Other generations rise,

The lady stood at the station bar, (Three currants in a bun) And oh she was proud, as ladies ar… (And the bun was baked a week ago.… For a weekly wage she was standing…

O Love, thine empire is not dead, Nor will we let thy worship go, Although thine early flush be fled… Thine ardent eyes more faintly glo… And thy light wings be fallen slow

Of our own will we are not free, When freedom lies within our power… We wait for some decisive hour, To rise and take our liberty. Still we delay, content to be

The air is dark and fragrant With memories of a shower, And sanctified with stillness By this most holy hour. The leaves forget to whisper