Here the white-ray’d anemone is bo… Wood-sorrel, and the varnish’d but… And primrose in its purfled green… Pallid and sweet round every buddi… Gray ash, and beech with rusty lea…

With grief and mourning I sit to… My Love passed by, and he didn’t… He passes by me, both day and nigh… And carries off my poor heart’s de… There is a tavern in yonder town,

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…

See how a Seed, which Autumn flun… And through the Winter neglected… Uncoils two little green leaves an… With tiny root taking hold on the… As, lifting and strengthening day…

That which he did not feel, he wou… What most he felt, religion it was… In a dumb darkling grotto, where t… Of tremulous tears, arising unespi… Became a holy well that durst not…

The vast and solemn company of clo… Around the Sun’s death, lit, inca… Cool into ashy wan; as Night ensh… The level pasture, creeping up beh… Through voiceless vales, o’er lawn…

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 fair witch crept to a young man’… And he kiss’d her and took her for… But a Shape came in at the dead o… And fill’d the room with snowy lig… And he saw how in his arms there l…

Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren’t go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk,

I heard the dogs howl in the moonl… I went to the window to see the si… All the Dead that ever I knew Going one by one and two by two. On they pass’d, and on they pass’d…

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

Now Autumn’s fire burns slowly al… And day by day the dead leaves fal… And night by night the monitory bl… Wails in the key-hold, telling how… O’er empty fields, or upland solit…

Four ducks on a pond, A grass-bank beyond, A blue sky of spring, White clouds on the wing; What a little thing

Is always Age severe? Is never Youth austere? Spring-fruits are sour to eat; Autumn’s the mellow time. Nay, very late in the year,