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

Saint Margaret’s Eve it did befal… The waves roll so gayly O, The tide came creeping up the wall… Love me true! I opened my gate; who there should…

O Spirit of the Summertime! 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…

Within a budding grove, In April’s ear sang every bird hi… But not a song to pleasure my unre… Or touch the tears unwept of bitte… Some spake, methought, with pity,…

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…

These little Songs, Found here and there, Floating in air By forest and lea, Or hill-side heather,

Adieu to Belashanny! where I was bred and born; Go where I may, I’ll think of you… as sure as night and morn. The kindly spot, the friendly town…

Far from the churchyard dig his gr… On some green mound beside the wav… To westward, sea and sky alone, And sunsets. Put a mossy stone, With mortal name and date, a harp

In Sussex here, by shingle and by… Flat fields and farmsteads in thei… The shallow tide-wave courses to t… And all along the down a fringe on… Of ducal woods. That 'dim discove…

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 thought it was the little bed I slept in long ago; A straight white curtain at the he… And two smooth knobs below. I thought I saw the nursery fire,

In early morning twilight, raw and… Damp vapours brooding on the barre… Through miles of mire in steady gr… Threescore well-arm’d police pursu… Each tall and bearded man a rifle…

I once was a guest at a Nobleman’… Fair was the Bride, but she scarc… And now in our mirth, she had tear… Her former true lover still runs i… Attired like a minstrel, her forme…

Hayrick some do spell thy name, And thy verse approves the same; For ’tis like fresh-scented hay,— With country lasses in’t at play.

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.