Now the wheat is in the ear And the rose is on the brere
And blue caps so divinely blue With corn poppy's o' scarlet hue
Maiden at the close o' Eve Wilt thou dear thy Cottage leave
And walk with one that loves thee

When the Evens tiney tears Beads upon the horny spears
And the spiders lace wets through With its pinhead blebs o' dew
Wilt thou lay thy work aside And walk by brooklets dim descried
When my delight could love thee

While thy footfall lightly prest Tramples bye the skylarks nest
And the cockles streaky eyes Marks the snug place where it lies

"These Gothic windows, how they wear me out
With cusp and foil, and nothing straight or square,
Crude colours, leaden borders roundabout,
And fitting in Peter here, and Matthew there!

"What a vocation! Here do I draw now
The abnormal, loving the Hellenic norm;
Martha I paint, and dream of Hera's brow,
Mary, and think of Aphrodite's form."

A LITTLE hand is knocking at my heart,
And I have closed the door.
“I pray thee, for the love of God, depart:
Thou shalt come in no more.”

“Open, for I am weary of the way.
The night is very black.
I have been wandering many a night and day.
Open. I have come back.”

The little hand is knocking patiently;
I listen, dumb with pain.
“Wilt thou not open, any more to me?
I have come back again.”

“I will not open any more. Depart.
I, that once lived, am dead.”
The hand that had been knocking at my heart
Was still. “And I?” she said.

Phillis, for shame let us improve
A thousand diff'rent ways,
Those few short moments snatch'd by love,
From many tedious days.

If you want courage to despise
The censure of the grave,
Though love's a tyrant in your eyes,
Your heart is but a slave.

My love is full of noble pride,
Nor can it e'er submit,
To let that fop, discretion, ride
In triumph over it.

False friends I have, as well as you,
Who daily counsel me
Fame and ambition to pursue,
And leave off loving thee.

But when the least regard I shew

I love you truly, truly,
dear, Life with its sorrow, life with its tear, Fades into
dreams when I feel you are near, For I love you truly, truly, dear.
Ah! love, 'tis something to feel your kind
hand, Ah! yes, 'tis something by your side to stand; Gone is the
sorrow, Gone doubt and fear, For you love me truly, truly, dear.

Now on land and sea descending,
Brings the night its peace profound,
And our evening hymn is blending
With the holy calm around.
Soon as dies the sunset glory
Stars of heaven shine out above,
Telling still the ancient story,—
Their Creator's changeless love.

Now, our wants and burdens leaving
To his care who cares for all,
Cease we fearing, cease we grieving;
At his touch our burdens fall.
As the darkness deepens o'er us,
Lo! eternal stars arise;
Hope and faith and love rise glorious
Shining in the spirit's skies.

the branch of plum blossoms—
strong fragrance
of the lord I love

—To my love I whisper, and say
Knowest thou why I love thee?—Nay:
Nay, she saith; O tell me again.—

When in her ear the secret I tell,
She smileth with joy incredible—

—Ha! she is vain—O nay—
—Then tell us! Nay, O nay.

—But this is in my heart,
That Love is Nature's perfect art,
And man hath got his fancy hence,
To clothe his thought in forms of sense.

—Fair are thy works, O man, and fair
Thy dreams of soul in garments rare,
—Beautiful past compare,
Yea, godlike when thou hast the skill
To steal a stir of the heavenly thrill:

If for
even
one night
the grasses
of my passion
were cut and gathered,
ah, what
a pile
they would make—
a mountain reaching

Fire that must flame is with apt fuell fed,
Flowers that wil thrive in sunny soyle are bred;
How can a hart feele heate that no hope findes?
Or can hee love on whom no comfort shines?

Fayre, I confesse there's pleasure in your sight:
Sweet, you have powre, I grant, of all delight:
But what is all to mee, if I have none?
Churle that you are, t' injoy such wealth alone.

Prayers move the heav'ns, but finde no grace with you;
Yet in your lookes a heavenly forme I view:
Then will I pray againe, hoping to finde,