At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time

At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time,

When you set your fancies free,

Will they pass to where-

-by death, fools think, imprisoned-

- Low he lies who once so loved you, whom you

loved so, --Pity me?

Oh to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken!

What had I on earth to do

With the slothful, with the mawkish, the unmanly?

Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless, did I drivel

--Being--who?

One who never turned his back but marched breast forward,

Never doubted clouds would break,

Never dreamed, though right were worsted,

wrong would triumph, Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight

better,

Sleep to wake.

No, at noonday in the bustle of man's work-time

Greet the unseen with a cheer!

Bid him forward, breast and back as either should be,

"Strive and thrive!" cry "Speed,--fight on, fare ever

There as here!"

Ah, happy, happy boughs

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed

Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;

And, happy melodist, unwearied,

For ever piping songs for ever new;

More happy love! more happy, happy love!

For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,

For ever panting, and for ever young;

All breathing human passion far above,

That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,

A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

A wet sheet and a flowing sea

A wet sheet and a flowing sea,

A wind that follows fast,

And fills the white and rustling sail,

And bends the gallant mast;

And bends the gallant mast, my boys,

While, like the eagle free,

Away the good ship flies, and leaves

Old England on the lee.

O for a soft and gentle wind!

I heard a fair one cry;

But give to me the snoring breeze,

And white waves heaving high;

And white waves heaving high, my boys,

The good ship tight and free--

The world of waters is our home,

And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon horned moon,

And lightning in yon cloud;

And hark the music, mariners!

The wind is piping loud;

The wind is piping loud, my boys,

The lightning flashing free--

While the hollow oak our palace is,

Our heritage the sea.

A late lark twitters from the quiet skies

A late lark twitters from the quiet skies;

And from the west,

Where the sun, his day's work ended,

Lingers as in content,

There falls on the old, grey city

An influence luminous and serene,

A shining peace.

The smoke ascends

In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires

Shine, and are changed. In the valley

Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun,

Closing his benediction,

Sinks, and the darkening air

Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night--

Night with her train of stars

And her great gift of sleep.

So be my passing!

My task accomplished and the long day done,

My wages taken, and in my heart

Some late lark singing,

Let me be gathered to the quiet west,

The sundown splendid and serene,

Death.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?

To what green altar, O mysterious priest,

Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,

And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?

What little town by river or sea shore,

Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,

Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?

And, little town, thy streets for evermore

Will silent be; and not a soul to tell

Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,

Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a brook;

Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

A flowery bank

Ye flowery banks o' bonie Doon,

How can ye blume so fair?

How can ye chant, ye little birds,

And I so full of care?

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird,

That sings upon the bough:

Thou minds me o' the happy days

When my fause Love was true!

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird,

That sings beside thy mate:

For so I sat, and so I sang,

And wist na o' my fate!

To see the woodbine twine,

And ilka bird sang o' its love,

And so did I o' mine.

With lightsome heart I pulled a rose

Free  off its thorny tree,

And my fause  lover staw my rose,

But left the thorn with' me.