There is delight in singing, tho' none hear. There is something in the autumn that is native There lived a wife at Usher's Well There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream IV 89 There was a youth, and a well-beloved youth. There's a palace in Florence, the world knows This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream;— This is a spray the Bird clung to, IV 190 308 VI 35 This is the month, and this is the happy morn . Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, Three fishers went sailing away to the west,- Thunder of riotous hoofs over the quaking sod Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream, Tiger, tiger, burning bright Time was, I shrank from what was right 'T is gone, that bright and orbèd blaze, To be a sweetness more desired than Spring; To fair Fidele's grassy tomb To him who, in the love of Nature, holds To me, fair friend, you never can be old; 'T was at the royal feast, for Persia won IV 239 63 'T was I that cried against the pane on All Souls 'T was in the prime of summer time Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart! Vital spark of heav'nly flame! Wae worth the power, thou cursed leaf! and sea- Waken, lords and ladies gay We children every morn would wait We thought that reason had mastered men We watch'd her breathing thro' the night. Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee; Welcome, maids of honour! Well! If the Bard was weather-wise who What bird so sings, yet so does wail? When do I see thee most, beloved one? When Freedom from her mountain height. III 215 When I do count the clock that tells the time When I have fears that I may cease to be When I play on my fiddle in Dooney, When, in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes When Letty had scarce pass'd her third glad year When maidens such as Hester die When Music, heavenly maid, was young When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye's When we two parted Whenever Richard Cory went down town,. EKEREE 105 135 IV 186 163 309 312 PART PAGE Where the bee sucks, there suck I: . Where the quiet-colored end of evening smiles Why art thou silent! Is thy love a plant. Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Wild rose of Alloway! my thanks; . With farmer Allan at the farm abode With fingers weary and worn With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st Ye blushing virgins happy are Ye Clouds! that far above me float and pause. Yet once more, O ye Laurels, and once more You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier |