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billow bird blast blue bowers breast breeze bright Carrion Crow cheer dark dear delight dost doth dream earth fair fall fear feather'd flight flits floats flow flowers flutter gentle give glow green grove hands hath hear heard heart heaven hill land Lark leaves Linnet lives lonely look morning Nature nest never night Nightingale notes o'er once Petrel plaintive plumes pours REDBREAST rest Robin round seek seen shade sing skies soft song soon soothe sorrow sound spray spring steps stormy strain stream summer Swallow sweet sweetly tears tell thee thine thou thou shalt tree tuneful voice wandering warm waves weary whither wide wild winds wing winter woods young
Page 43 - Wild is thy lay and loud, Far in the downy cloud, Love gives it energy, love gave it birth, Where, on thy dewy wing, Where art thou journeying ? Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.
Page 79 - midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way ? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along.
Page 66 - Tu-who, a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. When all aloud the wind doth blow And coughing drowns the parson's saw And birds sit brooding in the snow And Marian's nose looks red and raw, When...
Page 45 - To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love; Still longed for, never seen. And I can listen to thee yet; Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again.
Page 10 - THEBE is a bird who by his coat, And by the hoarseness of his note, Might be supposed a crow ; A great frequenter of the church, Where bishop-like he finds a perch, And dormitory too.
Page 44 - O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice? While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear, From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off, and near. Though babbling only to the Vale, Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours. Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice...
Page 80 - Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere; Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near.
Page 11 - You think no doubt he sits and muses On future broken bones and bruises, If he should chance to fall ; No, not a single thought like that Employs his philosophic pate, Or troubles it at all.
Page 62 - Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean side? There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,— The desert and illimitable air,— Lone wandering, but not lost.