A man who keeps a diary, pays Due toll to many tedious days; But life becomes eventful—then His busy hand forgets the pen. Most books, indeed, are records le…

Seek up and down, both fair and br… We’ve purty lasses many, O; But brown or fair, one girl most r… The Flow’r o’ Belashanny, O. As straight is she as poplar-tree

By the shore, a plot of ground Clips a ruined chapel round, Buttressed with a grassy mound; Where Day and Night and Day go b… And bring no touch of human sound.

A wild west Coast, a little Town, Where little Folk go up and down, Tides flow and winds blow: Night and Tempest and the Sea, Human Will and Human Fate:

O pale green sea, With long, pale, purple clouds abo… What lies in me like weight of lov… What dies in me With utter grief, because there co…

Doleful was the land, Dull on, every side, Neither soft n’or grand, Barren, bleak, and wide; Nothing look’d with love;

A man there came, whence none coul… Bearing a Touchstone in his hand; And tested all things in the land By its unerring spell. Quick birth of transmutation smote

Amy Margaret’s five years old, Amy Margaret’s hair is gold, Dearer twenty-thousand-fold Than gold, is Amy Margaret. “Amy” is friend, is “Margaret”

A sunset’s mounded cloud; A diamond evening-star; Sad blue hills afar; Love in his shroud. Scarcely a tear to shed;

O spirit of the Summer-time! Bring back the roses to the dells; The swallow from her distant clime… The honey-bee from drowsy cells. Bring back the friendship of the s…

When the spinning-room was here Came Three Damsels, clothed in wh… With their spindles every night; One and Two and three fair Maiden… Spinning to a pulsing cadence,

Chequer’d with woven shadows as I… Among the grass, blinking the wate… I saw an Echo-Spirit in his bay Most idly floating in the noontide… Slow heaved his filmy skiff, and f…

I’m glad I am alive, to see and f… The full deliciousness of this bri… That’s like a heart with nothing t… The young leaves scarcely tremblin… Rimming the cloudless ether far aw…

Little Cowboy, what have you hear… Up on the lonely rath’s green moun… Only the plaintive yellow bird Sighing in sultry fields around, Chary, chary, chary, chee—ee!—

October - and the skies are cool a… O’er stubbles emptied of their lat… Bare meadow, and the slowly fallin… The dignity of woods in rich decay Accords full well with this majest…