Adieu to Belshanny
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, where every one is known,
The Fairies
Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren’t go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl’s feather! Down along
These Little Songs
These little Songs, Found here and there, Floating in air By forest and lea, Or hill-side heather, In houses and throngs, Or down by the sea – Have come together, How, I can’t tell:
Aeolian Harp
O pale green sea, With long, pale, purple clouds above – What lies in me like weight of love? What dies in me With utter grief, because there comes no sign Through the sun-raying
Down on the Shore
Down on the shore, on the sunny shore! Where the salt smell cheers the land; Where the tide moves bright under boundless light, And the surge on the glittering strand; Where the children wade
The Little Dell
Doleful was the land, Dull on, every side, Neither soft n’or grand, Barren, bleak, and wide; Nothing look’d with love; All was dingy brown; The very skies above Seem’d to sulk and frown. Plodding
Late Autumn
October – and the skies are cool and gray O’er stubbles emptied of their latest sheaf, Bare meadow, and the slowly falling leaf. The dignity of woods in rich decay Accords full well with
The Touchstone
A man there came, whence none could tell, Bearing a Touchstone in his hand; And tested all things in the land By its unerring spell. Quick birth of transmutation smote The fair to foul,
A Day-Dream's Reflection
Chequer’d with woven shadows as I lay Among the grass, blinking the watery gleam, I saw an Echo-Spirit in his bay Most idly floating in the noontide beam. Slow heaved his filmy skiff, and
A Memory
Four ducks on a pond, A grass-bank beyond, A blue sky of spring, White clouds on the wing; What a little thing To remember for years – To remember with tears!
Amy Margaret's Five Year Old
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” The pearl for crown or carkanet? Or peeping daisy, summer’s pet? Which
Half-waking
I thought it was the little bed I slept in long ago; A straight white curtain at the head, And two smooth knobs below. I thought I saw the nursery fire, And in a
The Eviction
In early morning twilight, raw and chill, Damp vapours brooding on the barren hill, Through miles of mire in steady grave array Threescore well-arm’d police pursue their way; Each tall and bearded man a
A Seed
See how a Seed, which Autumn flung down, And through the Winter neglected lay, Uncoils two little green leaves and two brown, With tiny root taking hold on the clay As, lifting and strengthening
Writing
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 less Of fulness than of