For I heard your rivulet fall From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, Our wood, that is dearer than all; From the meadow your walks have left so sweet That whenever a March-wind sighs He sets the jewel-print of your feet In violets blue as your eyes, The slender acacia would not shake The lilies and roses were all awake, Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, There has fallen a splendid tear The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;" She is coming, my own, my sweet; Had I lain for a century dead; Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red. Alfred Tennyson FLOWER IN THE CRANNIED WALL Flower in the crannied wall, I pluck you out of the crannies, I hold you here, root and all, in my hand, - Alfred Tennyson THE SPACIOUS FIRMAMENT ON HIGH FROM THE Spectator The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And spangled heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim. The unwearied Sun, from day to day, Soon as the evening shades prevail, Whilst all the stars that round her burn, And spread the truth from pole to pole. What though, in solemn silence, all "The Hand that made us is divine." -Joseph Addison SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT She was a Phantom of delight When first she gleam'd upon my sight; A lovely Apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn I saw her upon nearer view, A countenance in which did meet And now I see with eye serene She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me! -William Wordsworth THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN At the corner of Wood Street, when day-light appears, Hangs a thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years. Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the bird. 'T is a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees Bright volumes of vapor through Lothbury glide, Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, |