We looked to Joy as furrows to the sun
In sowing time. Of that relentless heat
That spares the blade to blast the ripened wheat
How should we know, with summer but begun?
We followed Joy, nor knew how swiftly run
The untraceable and unreturning feet.
That quest I have no courage to repeat;
I am content; I ask no grace save one:
Lord, I will bear my own heart's utmost pain;
I will go softly, with bent, humbled head;
I will not strive, nor cry, nor pray again,
If Thou wilt hear in this my need extreme,
Wilt give me once, give me though in a dream,

Far in the forest shade,
Free as the deer to roam,
Where ne'er a fence was laid,
I'll search me out a home.
I love not cities vast,
Where want and wealth abide,
And all extremes are cast
To jumble side by side.

Far in the leafy woods,
Beside the lonely stream,
Where avarice ne'er intrudes
Her snorting car of steam;
Give me the cabin rude
Of unhewn beechen-tree,
And one both fair and good,
With heart that beats for me.

Away with pictured walls
Of gaudy banquet-room!
Give me the great green halls,

Here upon the mountain-side
Till now we met together;
Here I won my woodland bride,
In flush of summer weather.
Green was then the linden-bough,
This dear retreat that shaded;
Autumn winds are round me now,
And the leaves have faded.

She whose heart was all my own,
In this summer-bower,
With all pleasant things has flown,
Sunbeam, bird, and flower!
But her memory will stay
With me, though we're parted—
From the scene I turn away,
Lone and broken-hearted!

Hail , Music! all hail!
Earth's languages fail
To tell what thou tellest to me!
O spirit divine,
Space cannot confine,
All hearts are led captive by thee!

At a mortal's command,
From the mystical land
Where the spirit of Harmony dwells,
And the great river starts
That flows through all hearts,
Thou com'st with thy magical spells.

To celestial spheres,
Seen by sages and seers
On the rush of thy magical tide,
I am borne over time
To the regions sublime,
Where the mighty immortals abide.

Oh, the cankers of time,

Let other men to other faiths defer,
This is my creed, I live by it alone:
Not unto gods of self or carven stone
Do I bow down 'mid mists of mind that blur;
Let myriad schools their myriad truths aver,
Place Superstition on her ancient throne,
Or callous Reason to reign in ice alone;
Earth's truth was never taught by her, or her.

This is my creed, where each man hath his own,
God is a spirit, love with insight blends;
Make to thyself earth's rarest, highest friends,
Truth, wisdom, beauty: let all else alone;—

Uncle Sam and Johnny Bull
Went out one day and got so full
Of friendly admiration,
They swore they'd never fallen out
And ne'er again would brag about
Which had the bigger nation.

Said John: “In seventeen seventy-six
We had a rawther nawsty mix
About some bloomin' tea:
We've clean forgot the blawsted row—
Let's talk about alliance now!”
Said Sam: “Have one with me!

“We'll strike that Anglo-Saxon air
The race is singing everywhere;
And sing it while we quaff—
‘God save the Queen!’ one stanza be!

The world is a loom wherein life is the thread
That breaks only once and the weaver is dead!
Through the warp of our purpose the woof of each deed
Must fly with the shuttle though poor fingers bleed.

We are all busy weavers, think just as we may;
The loom will keep going, the shuttle will play;
Fast weaving the cloth as it moves right and left;
Or useful or useless depends on the weft.

Some weaving for pleasure, some weaving for nought,
Unraveling the fabric they aimlessly wrought;
The one seeking pleasures that never can please;

Let the world roll blindly on!
Give me shadow, give me sun,
And a perfumed eve as this is:
Let me lie,
Dreamfully,
When the last quick sunbeams shiver
Spears of light athwart the river,
And a breeze, which seems the sigh
Of a fairy floating by,
Coyly kisses
Tender leaf and feathered grasses;
Yet so soft its breathing passes,
These tall ferns, just glimmering o'er me,
Blending goldenly before me,
Hardly quiver!

I have done with worldly scheming,
Mocking show, and hollow seeming!
Let me lie
Idly here,

The woods are haggard and lonely,
The skies are hooded for snow,
The moon is cold in heaven,
And the grasses are sere below.

The bearded swamps are breathing
A mist from meres afar,
And grimly the Great Bear circles
Under the pale Pole Star.

There is never a voice in heaven,
Nor ever a sound on earth,
Where the spectres of winter are rising
Over the night's wan girth.

There is slumber and death in the silence,
There is hate in the winds so keen;
And the flash of the north's great sword-blade
Circles its cruel sheen.

Too much of sameness dulls our sense,
Which, like a bowstring, should be tense,
To send those arrows swift and clear,
To cleave the ether of the sphere,
And strike the living heart of song,
And from the electric centre thrill the listening throng.

Too little of the love we feel,
Too little of the hate we know;
Where we should pray, we only kneel,
And all the real life forego.

How can our song be true and loud,
And lifted to the morning cloud,
Across the fields of sunlit dew?
How can we strike the lyre of life,