A pale Dream came to a Lady fair,
And said, A boon, a boon, I pray!
I know the secrets of the air,
And things are lost in the glare o
Which I can make the sleeping see

A shovel of his ashes took
From the hearth’s obscurest nook,
Muttering mysteries as she went.
Helen and Henry knew that Granny
Was as much afraid of Ghosts as a

Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on t
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a differ
And ever changing, like a joyless

Lift not the painted veil which th
Call Life: though unreal shapes b
And it but mimic all we would beli
With colours idly spread,—behind,
And Hope, twin Destinies; who eve

Arise, arise, arise!
There is blood on the earth that d
Be your wounds like eyes
To weep for the dead, the dead, th
What other grief were it just to p

Maiden, quench the glare of sorrow
Struggling in thine haggard eye:
Firmness dare to borrow
From the wreck of destiny;
For the ray morn’s bloom revealing

Where man’s profane and tainting h
Nature’€™s primaeval loveliness ha
And some few souls of the high bli
Which else obey her powerful comma
...mountain piles

PEOPLE of England, ye who toil
Who reap the harvests which are no
Who weave the clothes which your o
And for your own take the inclemen
Who build warm houses . . .

One word is too often profaned
For me to profane it;
One feeling too falsely disdained
For thee to disdain it;
One hope is too like despair

Rarely, rarely, comest thou,
Spirit of Delight!
Wherefore hast thou left me now
Many a day and night?
Many a weary night and day