Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!
It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm further off from heaven Than when I was a boy.
A moment's thinking is an hour in words.
Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
Fuss is the froth of business.
But evil is wrought by want of thought, As well as want of heart!
My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread.
A certain portion of the human race has certainly a taste for being diddled.
The year's in wane; There is nothing adorning; The night has no eve, And the day has no morning; Cold winter gives warning!
O men with sisters dear, O men with mothers and wives, It is not linen you 're wearing out, But human creatures' lives!
I remember, I remember The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light! The lilacs, where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburmum on his birthday,- The tree is living yet.
I saw old Autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence, for no lonely bird would sing Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn, Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;- Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright With tangled gossamer that fell by night, Pearling his coronet of golden corn.
A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :;:; Must be a spoon.
Tis like the birthday of the world, When earth was born in bloom; The light is made of many dyes, The air is all perfume: There's crimson buds, and white and blue, The very rainbow showers Have turned to blossoms where they fell, And sown the earth with flowers.
Oh would I were dead now, Or up in my bed now, To cover my head now, And have a good cry!
How widely its agencies vary,- To save, to ruin, to curse, to bless,- As even its minted coins express, Now stamp'd with the image of Good Queen Bess, And now of a Bloody Mary.
For man may pious texts repeat, And yet religion have no inward seat
Well, something must be done for May, The time is drawing nigh-- To figure in the Catalogue, And woo the public eye. Something I must invent and paint; But oh my wit is not Like one of those kind substantives That answer Who and What?
Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
Mother of light! how fairly dost thou go Over those hoary crests, divinely led! Art thou that huntress of the silver bow Fabled of old? Or rather dost thou tread Those cloudy summits thence to gaze below, Like the wild chamois from her Alpine snow, Where hunters never climbed--secure from dread?
The moon, the moon, so silver and cold, Her fickle temper has oft been told, Now shade--now bright and sunny-- But of all the lunar things that change, The one that shows most fickle and strange, And takes the most eccentric range, Is the moon--so called--of honey!
The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread.
Lives of great men oft remind us as we o'er their pages turn, That we too may leave behind us - Letters that we ought to burn.
Spontaneously to God should turn the soul, Like the magnetic needle to the pole; But what were that intrinsic virtue worth, Suppose some fellow, with more zeal than knowledge, Fresh from St. Andrew's College, Should nail the conscious needle to the north?
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