Come, come thou bleak December wind,
And blow the dry leaves from the tree!
Flash, like a Love-thought, thro' me, Death

As some vast Tropic tree, itself a wood,
That crests its Head with clouds, beneath the flood …
Feeds its deep roots, and with the bulging flank

Whom should I choose for my Judge? the earnest, imp …
Who, in the work, forgets me and the world and hims …
Ye who have eyes to detect,...

The Moon, how definite its orb!
Yet gaze again, and with a steady gaze—
'Tis there indeed,—but where is it not?—

When Hope but made Tranquillity be felt—
A Flight of Hopes for ever on the wing
But made Tranquillity a conscious Thing—

Thicker than rain-drops on November thorn.

Water and windmills, greenness, Islets green;—
Willows whose Trunks beside the shadows stood
Of their own higher half, and willowy swamp:—

Though friendships differ endless in degree ,
The sorts , methinks, may be reduced to three.
Ac quaintance many, and Con quaintance few;