Beyond the sea, beyond the sea, My heart is gone, far, far from me… And ever on its track will flee My thoughts, my dreams, beyond the… Beyond the sea, beyond the sea,

Quickly pass the social glass, Hence with idle sorrow! No delay—enjoy today, Think not of tomorrow! Life at best is but a span,

Seamen three! What men be ye? Gotham’s three wise men we be. Whither in your bowl so free? To rake the moon from out the sea. The bowl goes trim. The moon doth…

The mountain sheep are sweeter, But the valley sheep are fatter; We therefore deemed it meeter To carry off the latter. We made an expedition;

Forasmuch as the Canter’s and Fan… Sayeth peace and joy are by me abh… And would fill each Sunday with g… For all too poor his regard to obt… And forasmuch as the laws heretofo…

—anankta ton pantôn huperbal– lonta chronon makarôn. Pindar. Hymn. frag. 33 As the mountain-torrent rages, Loud, impetuous, swift, and strong…

I dug, beneath the cypress shade, What well might seem an elfin’s gr… And every pledge in earth I laid, That erst thy false affection gave… I pressed them down the sod beneat…

August, 1842 with a remembrance of August, 1807 I gaze, where August’s sunbeam fa… Along these grey and lonely walls, Till in its light absorbed appears

I DUG, beneath the cypress shade…    What well might seem an elfin’s… And every pledge in earth I laid,    That erst thy false affection g… I press’d them down the sod beneat…

My thoughts by night are often fil… With visions false as fair: For in the past alone I build My castles in the air. I dwell not now on what may be:

O’er bush and briar Childe Launce… With ardent hopes elate, And loudly blew the horn that hung Before Sir Hornbook’s gate. The inner portals opened wide,

The ivy o’er the mouldering wall Spreads like a tree, the growth of… The wild wind through the doorless… A melancholy music rears, A solitary voice, that sighs

—anankta ton pantôn huperbal– lonta chronon makarôn. Pindar. Hymn. frag. 33 Spirit of the days of yore! Thou! who, in thy haunted cave,

Milestone: All my troubles disappear, When the dinner-bell I hear, Over woodland, dale, and fell, Swinging slow with solemn swell,—