Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea,
Thy tribute wave deliver:
No more by thee my steps shall be,
For ever and for ever.

Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea,
A rivulet then a river:
No where by thee my steps shall be,
For ever and for ever.

But here will sigh thine alder tree,
And here thine aspen shiver;
And here by thee will hum the bee,
For ever and for ever.

A thousand suns will stream on thee,
A thousand moons will quiver;
But not by thee my steps shall be,
For ever and for ever.

In the cold I will rise, I will bathe
In waters of ice; myself
Will shiver, and shrive myself,
Alone in the dawn, and anoint
Forehead and feet and hands;
I will shutter the windows from light,
I will place in their sockets the four
Tall candles and set them aflame
In the grey of the dawn; and myself
Will lay myself straight in my bed,
And draw the sheet under my chin.

A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;

I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie
Sleeplesss; and soon the small birds' melodies
Must hear, first utter'd from my orchard trees,
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.

Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay,
And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:
So do not let me wear to-night away:

Fling this useless Book away,
And presume no more to Pray;
Heav'n is just , and can bestow
Mercy on none but those that Mercy show.
With a proud Heart maliciously inclin'd
Not to encrease , but to subdue Mankind.
In vain you vex the Gods with your Petition;
Without Repentance and sincere Contrition,
You're in a Reprobate Condition.
Phillis , to calm the angry Powers,
And save my Soul as well as yours,
Relieve poor Mortals from Despair,
And justifie the Gods that made you fair;
And in those bright and charming Eyes

The flesh is sad, alas! and all the books are read.
Flight, only flight! I feel that birds are wild to tread
The floor of unknown foam, and to attain the skies!
Nought, neither ancient gardens mirrored in the eyes,
Shall hold this heart that bathes in waters its delight,
O nights! nor yet my waking lamp, whose lonely light
Shadows the vacant paper, whiteness profits best,
Nor the young wife who rocks her baby on her breast.
I will depart! O steamer, swaying rope and spar,
Lift anchor for exotic lands that lie afar!

The fleeting birds may soon in ocean swim,
And northern whales thro' liquid azure skim:
The Dublin ladies their intrigues forsake;
To dress and scandal an aversion take;
When you can in the lonely forest walk,
And with some serious matron gravely talk,
Of possets, poultices, and waters still'd,
And monstrous casks with mead and cyder fill'd;
How many hives of bees she has in store,
And how much fruit her trees this summer bore;
Or home returning in the yard can stand,
And feed the chickens from your bounteous hand:

FLEET Street ! Fleet Street! Fleet Street in the morning,
— With the old sun laughing out behind the dome of Paul's,
Heavy wains a-driving, merry winds a-striving,
— White clouds and blue sky above the smoke-stained walls.

Fleet Street! Fleet Street! Fleet Street in the noontide,
— East and west the streets packed close, and roaring like the sea;
With laughter and with sobbing we feel the world's heart throbbing,
— And know that what is throbbing is the heart of you and me.

Fleet Street! Fleet Street! Fleet Street in the evening,

Todd's Hardware was dust and a monkey —
a real one, on the second floor —
and Mrs. Todd there behind the glass cases.
We stepped over buckets of nails and lawnmowers
to get to the candy counter in the back,
and pointed at the red wax lips,
and Mary Janes,
and straws full of purple sugar.
Said goodbye to Mrs. Todd, she white-faced and silent,
and walked the streets of Beaver,
our teeth sunk hard in the wax,
and big red lips worth kissing.

Flee fro the prees and dwell with soothfastnesse;
Suffice unto thy thing, though it be smal;
For hord hath hate, and climbing tikelnesse,
Prees hath envye, and wele blent overal;
Savour no more than thee behove shal.
Wirche wel thyself, that other folk canst rede;
And trouthe shal delivere, it is no drede.

Tempest thee not al croked to redresse,
In trust of hir that turneth as a bal —
For grete rest stant in litel bisinesse;
And eek be ware to sporne ayenst an al;
Strive not as doth the crokke with the wal.
Daunte thyself, that dauntest otheres dede;

There was an Old Man of Dumblane,
Who greatly resembled a crane;
But they said, " Is it wrong, since your legs are so long,
To request you won't stay in Dumblane? "