The setting sun it gilds wi' gold And village windows blazes now
While beauty's o' the finest mould Walk the green hills grassy brow
The bramble bends wi' drops O' pearl The silver daisy's turn to green
And beautifull the lovely girl That on those lone[l]y hills was seen

Maria beautifull Maria The hum[m]ing bee the glossy fly
From sun set to their homes retire And leave thee to thy evening joy
Beaded wi' dew the zephers wing Blows coolly on thy neck so fair
Perked up thy wild flower blossoms spring And join wi thee the cooler air

If I create wealth beyond the dream of past ages and increase not love, my heat is the flush of fever and my success will deal death.
Though I have foresight to locate the fountains of riches, and power to pre-empt them, and skill to tap them, and have no loving vision for humanity, I am blind.
Though I give of my profits to the poor and make princely endowments for those who toil for me, if I have no human fellowship of love with them, my life is barren and doomed.

Come, love, help me move all the mirrors out of my workshop,
All the sore spots out of my heart!
You only can give me what I need;
A steel girder faith to build on,
The feel of tomorrow in my land.
Andante of a happy city's hundred thousand feet,
Keeping step in a grand procession,
Telling the world they walk in peace and freedom,
Broadcasting a forever and ever armistice day.

" Thou'rt mine Love"

1

Thou'rt mine Love, in gladness;
In sickness, and sorrow;
Oh! — the love of to day,
Shall not change with the morrow,
While the bright mirror'd sky,
Is pourtray'd in the river:
While there's light in thine eye,
Thou'rt mine love for ever.

2

My delight's in thy keeping,
In daylight and gloaming;
I dream of thee sleeping,
And think of thee roaming.
Thou'rt mine love in gladness,
In sickness, and sorrow;
Oh! the smile of to day,
Shall not change with the morrow.

1

Love is a secret;
Like a bird in a shell;
Like a rose ere it blossom,—
All unseen will it dwell.

2

'Tis the kernel of fruits,
The germ of all flowers,
The blaze of the diamond,
The moment of hours.

3

'Tis the star in night's darkness,
The sky in the river,
The soul in mans bosom,—
That wears it for ever.

4

'Tis a word and the dearest,—
Each language has shown;
'Tis a thought the sincerest,
Any tongue has made known.—

5

'Tis a flower in a basket,—

O come wi' the music o' birds i' the bushes
The songs o' the blackbirds the music o' thrushes
The budding o' white thorn the daisey's i' bloom
My lovely young lassie array thee and come
Come away to the wood side the hedge row and rushes
Where the sweet little birds build their nests in the bushes
Come my lovely Miss Wilson and walk out wi' me
Down the grassy wood side—and the sweet meadow lea

2

The rooks their spring musical noises are making
The cowslips are peeping among grasses green

Friend, if the mute and shrouded dead
Are touched at all by tears,
By love long fled and friendship sped
And the unreturning years,

O then, to her that early died,
O doubt not, bridegroom, to thy bride
Thy love is sweet and sweeteneth
The very bitterness of death.

Of a true love clean and derne
I have now written thee a Ron,
How thou might, if thou wilt, learn
For to love thy Leman
That truest is of alle bearn;
And more of love there knoweth none:
Beware, for He is somewhat stern,
His eye is ever thee upon.

Thou art wrought of such a kind,
Withouten love thou may not be;
And nevermore shalt thou find
One so sweet and fair as He.
If thou wilt Him to thee bind
With true love-bondes three,
With all thine heart and will and mind, —
Then from thee will He never flee.

I love the awthorn well
The first green thing
In woods & hedges — black thorn dell
Dashed with its green first spring
When sallows shine in golden shene
These white thorn places in the black how green.

How beautifully green
Though March has but begun
To tend primroses planted in the sun
The roots thats further in
Are not begun to bud or may be just begun.

I love the white thorn bough
Hung over the mole hill
Where the spring feeding cow
Rubs off the dew drop chill
When on the cowslip pips & glossy thorn

Along the edge of the great, moving sea —
That moaned forever on her barren bars,
The old, sad love came back again to me,
Moving quietly under the quiet stars.

O sad love, do not smile upon me so,
Nodding so gently with your little head —
All the old wonder of your eyes is dead,
And the sea-winds have chilled you long ago!