O hark,O hear! how thin and clear And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

That tower of strength Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew.

Tis a morning pure and sweet, And a dewy splendour falls On the little flower that clings To the turrets and the walls; 'Tis a morning pure and sweet, And the light and shadow fleet; She is walking in the meadow, And the woodland echo rings; In a moment we shall meet; She is singing in the meadow, And the rivulet at her feet Ripples on in light and shadow To the ballad that she sings.

I remain Mistress of mine own self and mine own soul

As the husband is, the wife is.

I do but sing because I must; and pipe but as the linnets sing.

He that shuts love out, in turn shall be Shut out from love, and on her threshold lie, Howling in outer darkness.