Some dreams we have are nothing else but dreams, Unnatural and full of contradictions; Yet others of our most romantic schemes, Are something more than fictions.
And there is even a happiness That makes the heart afraid.
It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm further off from heaven Than when I was a boy.
Fuss is the froth of business.
A moment's thinking is an hour in words.
Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
But evil is wrought by want of thought, As well as want of heart!
My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread.
Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!
A certain portion of the human race has certainly a taste for being diddled.
The cowslip is a country wench.
The year's in wane; There is nothing adorning; The night has no eve, And the day has no morning; Cold winter gives warning!
O men with sisters dear, O men with mothers and wives, It is not linen you 're wearing out, But human creatures' lives!
I remember, I remember The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light! The lilacs, where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburmum on his birthday,- The tree is living yet.
I saw old Autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence, for no lonely bird would sing Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn, Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;- Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright With tangled gossamer that fell by night, Pearling his coronet of golden corn.
A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :;:; Must be a spoon.
The best of friends fall out, and so his teeth had done some years ago.
Mother of light! how fairly dost thou go Over those hoary crests, divinely led! Art thou that huntress of the silver bow Fabled of old? Or rather dost thou tread Those cloudy summits thence to gaze below, Like the wild chamois from her Alpine snow, Where hunters never climbed--secure from dread?
No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
Lives of great men oft remind us as we o'er their pages turn, That we too may leave behind us - Letters that we ought to burn.
Boughs are daily rifled By the gusty thieves, And the book of Nature Getteth short of leaves.
How widely its agencies vary,- To save, to ruin, to curse, to bless,- As even its minted coins express, Now stamp'd with the image of Good Queen Bess, And now of a Bloody Mary.
Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied; We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died.
We watch'd her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro.
It was not in the winter Our loving lot was cast! It was the time of roses, We plucked them as we passed!
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