The still affection of the heart Became an outward breathing type, That into stillness past again, And left a want unknown before; Although the loss had brought us pain, That loss but made us love the more.

On all things created remaineth the half-effaced signature of God, Somewhat of fair and good, though blotted by the finger of corruption.

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new.

From yon blue heaven above us bent, The grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent.

O Blackbird! sing me something well: While all the neighbors shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell.

The year is dying in the night.

As she fled fast through sun and shade The happy winds upon her play'd, Blowing the ringlet from the braid.