Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!
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.
A moment's thinking is an hour in words.
Fuss is the froth of business.
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.
Tis like the birthday of the world, When earth was born in bloom; The light is made of many dyes, The air is all perfume: There's crimson buds, and white and blue, The very rainbow showers Have turned to blossoms where they fell, And sown the earth with flowers.
A certain portion of the human race has certainly a taste for being diddled.
The cowslip is a country wench.
O men with sisters dear, O men with mothers and wives, It is not linen you 're wearing out, But human creatures' lives!
The year's in wane; There is nothing adorning; The night has no eve, And the day has no morning; Cold winter gives warning!
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.
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.
A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :;:; Must be a spoon.
No sun, no moon, no morn, no noon, No dawn, no dusk, no proper time of day, . . . . . . No road, no street, no t' other side the way, . . . . . . No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no buds.
The biggest bore of all is he who is overflowing with congratulations
My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
The Autumn is old; The sere leaves are flying; He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying;- Old age, begin sighing!
What joy have I in June's return? My feet are parched-my eyeballs burn, I scent no flowery gust; But faint the flagging zephyr springs, With dry Macadam on its wings, And turns me 'dust to dust.'
While the steeples are loud in their joy, To the tune of the bells' ring-a-ding, Let us chime in a peal, one and all, For we all should be able to sing Hullah baloo.
When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.
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.
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