What joy have I in June's return? My feet are parched-my eyeballs burn, I scent no flowery gust; But faint the flagging zephyr springs, With dry Macadam on its wings, And turns me 'dust to dust.'
It was not in the winter Our loving lot was cast! It was the time of roses, We plucked them as we passed!
There is a silence where hath been no sound, There is a silence where no sound may be,- In the cold grave, under the deep, deep sea, Or in the wide desert where no life is found.
A name, it has more than nominal worth, And belongs to good or bad luck at birth
Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
While the steeples are loud in their joy, To the tune of the bells' ring-a-ding, Let us chime in a peal, one and all, For we all should be able to sing Hullah baloo.
Ben Battle was a soldier bold, and used to war's alarms, But a cannon-ball took off his legs, so he laid down his arms.
There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
The biggest bore of all is he who is overflowing with congratulations
Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
Boughs are daily rifled By the gusty thieves, And the book of Nature Getteth short of leaves.
I remember, I remember The fir-trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky; It was a childish ignorance, But now 't is little joy To know I'm farther off from heaven Than when I was a boy.
No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
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