My heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a watered shoot; My heart is like an apple-tree
Through the vales to my love! To the happy small nest of home Green from basement to roof;
A night was near, a day was near; Between a day and night I heard sweet voices calling clear,
I said of laughter: it is vain. Of mirth I said: what profits it? Therefore I found a book, and writ
It is over. What is over? Nay, now much is over truly! - Harvest days we toiled to sow for;
I wish you were a pleasant wren, And I your small accepted mate; How we'd look down on toilsome men!
(Macmillan's Magazine, Jan. 1866.) Consider The lilies of the field whose bloom is brief: -
Oh why is heaven built so far, Oh why is earth set so remote? I cannot reach the nearest star
(Lyra Messianica, 1864.) There is nothing more that they can do For all their rage and boast;
A blue-eyed phantom far before Is laughing, leaping toward the sun: Like lead I chase it evermore,
(The Argosy, March 1866.) If he would come to-day, to-day, to-day, O, what a day to-day would be!
Thou who didst hang upon a barren tree, My God, for me; Though I till now be barren, now at length
Not for me marring or making, Not for me giving or taking; I love my Love and he loves not me,
Out of the church she followed them With a lofty step and mien: His bride was like a village maid,
I cannot tell you how it was; But this I know: it came to pass Upon a bright and breezy day
I never said I loved you, John: Why will you tease me, day by day, And wax a weariness to think upon
(Margaret.) I said: This is a beautiful fresh rose. I said: I will delight me with its scent,
I will tell you when they met: In the limpid days of Spring; Elder boughs were budding yet,
(Lyra Eucharistica, second edition, 1865.) Golden-winged, silver-winged, Winged with flashing flame,
(Macmillan's Magazine, Dec. 1866.) Oh the cheerful Budding-time! When thorn-hedges turn to green,
The door was shut. I looked between Its iron bars; and saw it lie, My garden, mine, beneath the sky,
Who told my mother of my shame, Who told my father of my dear? Oh who but Maude, my sister Maude,
Oh roses for the flush of youth, And laurel for the perfect prime; But pluck an ivy branch for me
The sweetest blossoms die. And so it was that, going day by day Unto the church to praise and pray,
Underneath the growing grass, Underneath the living flowers, Deeper than the sound of showers:
Where are the songs I used to know, Where are the notes I used to sing? I have forgotten everything
'A cup for hope!' she said, In springtime ere the bloom was old: The crimson wine was poor and cold
Oh, pleasant eventide! Clouds on the western side Grow grey and greyer hiding the warm sun: