She walks with the wind on the win… When the rocks are loud and the wa… And all night long she calls throu… ‘O my children, come home!’ Her bleak gown, torn as a tattered…

In dim samite was she bedight, And on her hair a hoop of gold, Like fox-fire in the tawn moonligh… Was glimmering cold. With soft gray eyes she gloomed an…

The source of laughter lies so nea… And pain to rapture, that one foun… From forth the two Love’s; in who… The image of the Heaven each man…

Death rides black-masked to-night;… Madness beside him brandishes a to… The peaceful farmhouse with its vi… Lies in their way. Death lifts a… And knocks, and Madness makes a w…

Misty are the far-off hills And misty are the near; Purple hazes dimly lie Veiling hill and field and sky, Marshes where the hylas cry,

Were I an artist, Lydia, I Would paint you as you merit, Not as my eyes, but dreams, descry… Not in the flesh, but spirit. The canvas I would paint you on

To Friendship drink, and then to… And last to Loyalty! The first of these were not enough Without the last, through whom we… That Love is Love, and right enou…

She mutters and stoops by the lone… The little green leaves are hushed… An owl in an oak cries’Who-oh-who… And a fox barks back where the moo… The moss that sways to a sudden br…

A disc of violet blue, Rimmed with a thorn of fire, The new moon hangs in a sky of dew… And under the vines, where the sun… Is blent with blossoms, first one,…

Let down the bars; drive in the co… The west is barred with burning ro… Unhitch the horses from the plough… And from the cart the ox that lows… And light the lamp within the hous…

When in the pansy-purpled stain Of sunset one far star is seen, Like some bright dropp of rain, Out of the forest, deep and green, O’er me at Spirit seems to lean,

These are the things I pray Heave… To blow the ashes of the years awa… Or keep aglow forever 'neath their… The fire that warms when Life’s o… First Faith, that gazed into our…

With fall on fall, from wood to wo… The brook pours mossy music down Or is it, in the solitude, The murmur of a Faery town? A town of Elfland filled with bel…

The flute, whence Summer’s dreamy… Drew music, ripening the pinched k… The burly chestnut and the chinqua… Red-rounding-out the oval haws and… Now Winter crushes to his stormy…

He was not learned in any art; But Nature led him by the hand; And spoke her language to his hear… So he could hear and understand: He loved her simply as a child;