English

Cloudy mist every valley and hill buries,
Spurred and booted on sofas we sprawl,
Back the galloways, put up the tilburies,
Sad wet weather at Drizzle-down Hall
One cannot read Waverley twice over cleverly,
Talents should never lie idle a day,
Best of Madrigals, Private Theatricals,
All we want is to settle the play.

Hang a curtain across the back drawing-room,
Black that staring mahogany door,
Make the book-room a carpenter's sawing-room,
Never mind! cut a hole in the floor.

O Lily, dropped upon the gray sea-sand,
What time my fair love through the morning land
Led the rejoicing children, singing all
In happy chorus, to their festival,
Under green trees the flowery fields among;
Now, when the noon sun blazes o'er the sea,
And echo tells not of the song they sung,
And all thy silver splendor silently
Thou yieldest to the salt and bitter tide,
I find thee, and, remembering on whose breast
Thy day began in thy fresh beauty's pride,
Though of thy bloom and fragrance dispossessed,

Loyal hearts, the century through,
Back to you our blessings turn;
Veins within us filled by you
Yet with righteous ardor burn!

Down the years hot truth has run
Purest in your earthen mould—
Bunker Hill and Lexington
Leave us models from of old.

We who till the fervent West—
How ye would have loved the land!—
Feel the fire of your unrest
By the breath of danger fanned.

Not diminished, farmer sires,
Runs our yet-indignant blood—
Waked to sympathetic fires
And more watchful hardihood.

Wild honeysuckle throws across
The hazel-trees its gold and white,
And from its curving flutes and spurs,
Unfettered, sun-dyed revellers,
Such essence importunes the night
That roses are but dross.

The hazel-tree within my mind
Fruit good and bad will bear, and men
May vilify or praise me when
They crack the nuts that grew forgot,
Some kernelled white, some brown with rot;
No matter what they find.

No matter what they find, if still
Known but to me, the wild spikes fling

I'd not speak nor
Utter the pulse
That lowly travels
Blindly its course.

Sad, and many years …
Can soul, the instinct,
With love and fears,
Prop its burdened link?

March . . . Someone has walked across the snow,
Someone looking for he knows not what.

It is like a boat that has pulled away
From a shore at night and disappeared.

It is like a guitar left on a table
By a woman, who has forgotten it.

It is like the feeling of a man
Come back to see a certain house.

The four winds blow through the rustic arbor,
Under its mattresses of vines.

Let's say “Good-bye”
Nor wait Love's latest breath
Poised now so lightly on the wing of Death,
While yet within our eyes one fervent gleam
Remains to hallow this, a passing dream:
Yes, yes “Good-bye,”
For it is best to part
While Love's low light still burns
Within the heart!

This is the hour of reckoning
Let me ask myself where I went wrong:
Was it in the studying
or the experience?

Then we shall see and know
What can't be known below,
For glory centers in his name;
No night's approach they fear,
They need no candle there,
The light of heav'n is God the Lamb.

He shines with beams of love
On all the saints above,
And all the saints with glory shine;
From him the angels bright,
Those happy sons of light,
Are fill'd with life and love divine.

No temple built with hands
In that bright region stands,
God is their palace, and their home:
With perfect pleasure blest,

The merry-go-round, the merry-go-round, the merry-go-round at Fowey!
They whirl around, they gallop around, man, woman, and girl, and boy;
They circle on wooden horses, white, black, brown, and bay,
To a loud monotonous tune that hath a trumpet bray.
All is dark where the circus stands on the narrow quay,
Save for its own yellow lamps, that illumine it brilliantly:
Painted purple and red, it pours a broad strong glow
Over an old-world house, with a pillared place below;
For the floor of the building rests on bandy columns small,