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bank beautiful bees bird bloom blossom blows blue bough bower breast breeze bright broom cheer CHRISTMAS clear close cloud cold CUCKOO daisy dark death deep delight doth dwell early earth Edmund Evans fair fall fear fields flowers gentle give grass green Greenaway grove hand happy hath head hear heard heart heath heaven hill hour JUNE LAMBS land leaps leaves light lilies lonely look lost Measom morning mountain Nature nest never night NIGHTINGALE o'er plain PLAY rest rocks rose round scarce seen shade shepherd side sight sing skies smile snow soft song soon sound spirit Spring SQUIRREL stream Summer sunny swallow sweet thee thine thing thou thought trees Violet voice warm waves wide wild wind wing wood wreath young
Page 29 - Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear, Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.
Page 31 - What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields or waves or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be; Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee; Thou lovest — but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Page 58 - O Cuckoo ! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice ? While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear, From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off, and near. Though babbling only to the Vale, Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours. Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring ! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery...
Page 32 - Yet if we could scorn Hate and pride and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground ! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, The world should listen then — as I am listening now.
Page 9 - midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way ? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along.
Page 30 - In the light of thought, Singing hymns unbidden Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not...
Page 64 - But who the melodies of morn can tell ? The wild brook babbling down the mountain side : The lowing herd ; the sheepfold's simple bell ; The pipe of early shepherd dim descried In the lone valley ; echoing far and wide The clamorous horn along the cliffs above ; The hollow murmur of the ocean tide ; The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love, And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.
Page 104 - Tis the merry Nightingale That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates With fast thick warble his delicious notes; As he were fearful that an April night Would be too short for him to utter forth His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul Of all its music...