From yon blue heavens above us bent The gardener Adam and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 'Tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.

I know transplanted human worth will bloom to profit otherwhere.

I sometimes find it half a sin, To put to words the grief i feel, For words like nature,half reveal, and half conceal the soul within.

Woman is the lesser man.

I heard no longer The snowy-banded, dilettante, Delicate-handed priest intone.

And every dew-drop paints a bow.

And o'er the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, Beyond the night, across the day, Thro' all the world she follow'd him.