They say that lonely sorrows do no… More gently, I think, sorrows tog… A new one joins the funeral glidin… With less of jar than when it brea… Grief swages grief, and joy doth j…

Within each living man there doth… In some unrifled chamber of the he… A hidden treasure: wayward as thou… I love thee, man, and bind thee to… By that sweet act I purify my pri…

I cannot praise thee. By his inst… The master sits, and moves nor foo… For see the organ-pipes this, that… Leaning, o’erthrown, like wheat-st… I well could praise thee for a flo…

Methought I stood among the stars… Watching a grey parched orb which… Half blinded by the dusty winds th… Empty as Death and barren as a st… The pleasant sound of water all un…

We bore him through the golden lan… One early harvest morn; The corn stood ripe on either hand… He knew all about the corn. How shall the harvest gathered be

O Earth, Earth, Earth, I am dying for love of thee, For thou hast given me birth, And thy hands have tended me. I would fall asleep on thy breast

In the desert by the bush, Moses to his heart said Hush David on his bed did pray; God all night went not away.

A gentle wind, of western birth On some far summer sea, Wakes daisies in the wintry earth, Wakes hopes in wintry me. The sun is low; the paths are wet,

Prince Breacan of Denmark was lor… And lord of the billowy sea; Lord of the sea and lord of the la… He might have let maidens be! A maiden he met with locks of gold…

I follow, tottering, in the funera… That bears my body to the welcomin… As those I mourn not, that entomb… But smile as those that lay aside… To me it is a thing of poor disdai…

Who would have thought that even a… Were such a holy and celestial thi… That wickedness and envy cannot si… That music for no moment lives wit… I know this, for a very grievous t…

I would I were an angel strong, An angel of the sun, hasting along… I would I were just come awake, A child outbursting from night’s d… Or lark whose inward, upward fate

Thou foldest me in sickness; Thou callest through the cloud; I batter with the thickness Of the swathing, blinding shroud: Oh, let me see thy face,

I dinna ken what’s come ower me! There’s a how whaur ance was a her… I never luik oot afore me, An’ a cry winna gar me stert; There’s naething nae mair to come…

Dead, why defend thee, who in life For thy worst foe hadst died; Who, thy own name a word of strife… Didst silent stand aside? Grand in forgiveness, what to thee