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Finding his proper food
By sure inseeing,

In all things pure and good,
Which he at will doth cull,
Like a joyous butterfly
Hiving in the sunny bowers
Of the soul's fairest flowers,
Or, between the earth and sky,
Wandering at liberty
For happy, happy hours!


The thoughts of Love are Poesy,
As this fair earth and all we see
Are the thoughts of Deity -
And Love is ours by our birthright!
He hath cleared mine inward sight;
Glorious shapes with glorious eyes
Round about my spirit glance,
Shedding a mild and golden light
On the shadowy face of Night;
To unearthly melodies,
Hand in hand, they weave their dance,
While a deep, ambrosial lustre

From their rounded limbs doth shine,
Through many a rich and golden cluster
Of streaming hair divine.

In our gross and earthly hours
We cannot see the Love-given powers
Which ever round the soul await
To do its sovereign will,

When, in its moments calm and still,
It re-assumes its royal state,
Nor longer sits with eyes downcast,
A beggar, dreaming of the past,
At its own palace-gate.


I too am a Maker and a Poet; Through my whole soul I feel it and know it; My veins are fired with ecstasy!

All-mother Earth

Did ne'er give birth

To one who shall be matched with me;
The lustre of my coronal

Shall cast a dimness over all.
Alas! alas! what have I spoken?
My strong, my eagle wings are broken,
And back again to earth I fall!



WHEN first I saw thy soul-deep eyes,
My heart yearned to thee instantly,
Strange longing in my soul did rise;
I cannot tell the reason why,
But I must love thee till I die.


The sight of thee hath well-nigh grown As needful to me as the light;

I am unrestful when alone,

And my heart doth not beat aright
Except it dwell within thy sight.


And yet and yet - O selfish love!
I am not happy even with thee;
I see thee in thy brightness move,
And cannot well contented be,
Save thou should'st shine alone for me.


We should love beauty even as flowers For all, 't is said, they bud and blow, They are the world's as well as ours But thou-alas! God made thee grow So fair, I cannot love thee so!


THE flowers and the grass to me
Are eloquent reproachfully;
For would they wave so pleasantly

Or look so fresh and fair,
If a man, cunning, hollow, mean,
Or one in anywise unclean,
Were looking on them there?

No; he hath grown so foolish-wise
He cannot see with childhood's eyes;
He hath forgot that purity
And lowliness which are the key
Of Nature's mysteries;

No; he hath wandered off so long
From his own place of birth,
That he hath lost his mother-tongue,
And, like one come from far-off lands,
Forgetting and forgot, he stands
Beside his mother's hearth.



I WANDERED down the sunny glade
And ever mused, my love, of thee;
My thoughts, like little children, played,
As gayly and as guilelessly.


If any chanced to go astray,

Moaning in fear of coming harms, Hope brought the wanderer back alway, Safe nestled in her snowy arms.


From that soft nest the happy one
Looked up at me and calmly smiled;
Its hair shone golden in the sun,

And made it seem a heavenly child.


Dear Hope's blue eyes smiled mildly down,
And blest it with a love so deep,
That, like a nursling of her own,

It clasped her neck and fell asleep.



I LOVE the rites of England's church;
I love to hear and see
The priest and people reading slow
The solemn Litany;

I love to hear the glorious swell
Of chanted psalm and prayer,
And the deep organ's bursting heart,
Throb through the shivering air.


Chants, that a thousand years have heard, I love to hear again,

For visions of the olden time

Are wakened by the strain;
With gorgeous hues the window-glass
Seems suddenly to glow,

And rich and red the streams of light
Down through the chancel flow.


And then I murmur, "Surely God
Delighteth here to dwell;

This is the temple of his Son

Whom he doth love so well; But, when I hear the creed which saith, This church alone is His,

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I feel within my soul that He
Hath purer shrines than this.


For his is not the builded church,
Nor organ-shaken dome;

In every thing that lovely is
He loves and hath his home;
And most in soul that loveth well

All things which he hath made, Knowing no creed but simple faith That may not be gainsaid.


His church is universal Love,
And whoso dwells therein
Shall need no customed sacrifice
To wash away his sin;
And music in its aisles shall swell,
Of lives upright and true,
Sweet as dreamed sounds of angel-harps
Down-quivering through the blue.


They shall not ask a litany,
The souls that worship there,
But every look shall be a hymn,
And every word a prayer;
Their service shall be written bright
In calm and holy eyes,
And every day from fragrant hearts
Fit incense shall arise.


THE pretty things that others wear Look strange and out of place on me, I never seem dressed tastefully, Because I am not fair;

And, when I would most pleasing seem,
And deck myself with joyful care,
I find it is an idle dream,
Because I am not fair.

If I put roses in my hair,
They bloom as if in mockery;
Nature denies her sympathy,

Because I am not fair;
Alas! I have a warm, true heart,
But when I show it people stare;
I must forever dwell apart,
Because I am not fair.

I am least happy being where The hearts of others are most light,

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