If hush'd the loud whirlwind that ruffled the deep I have brought her I love to this sweet place - I heard them talking and praising the grey French country I know a grove of large extent I learnt to love that England I met a sailor in the woods In after days when grasses high In grappled ships around The Victory In the early spring, as the nights grow shorter In this dark, weed-grown wilderness Is life worth living? Yes, so long Is this a holy thing to see It is a beauteous evening, calm and free It is a Summer's gloaming, faint and sweet Page It mayn't be so much of a place whin ye reckon by land— I travelled among unknown men It's good-bye now to Africa, but kiss your hand again It was a summer evening It was eight bells ringing It was roses, roses, all the way I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree I would have loved: there are no mates in heaven I would live, if I had my will I would not, if I could, repeat Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King Late February days; and now, at last Let him that will, ascend the tottering seat Little brown brother, oh! little brown brother 68 130 180 271 262 118 Long, hatchet face, black hair, and haunting gaze Low, the woods bow their hoar heads Page 63 198 My days among the Dead are past My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here Nobly, nobly Cape St. Vincent to the North-west died away. Now fades the last long streak of snow Now, lay thine ear against this golden sand Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger 277 46 260 6 46 - 334 72 Often I think of the beautiful town Oh bad the march, the weary march, beneath these alien Oh, good gigantic smile o' the brown old earth Oh righteous doom, that they who make Oh, to be in England now that April's there On the hill of Hemimura, looking out across the sea O pleasant exercise of hope and joy! Otaki, that rollest in thy pride Others abide our question. Thou art free Others, too, there are among the walks of homely lic Our bark is on the waters! wide around Our mother bade us keep the trodden ways Over here in England I'm helpin' wi' the hay O, who can blame de winter, never min' de hard he's blowin' Pansies, Lilies, King-cups, Daisies Peace and her huge invasion to these shores Right well I wot, most mighty Sovereign Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean-roll! 98 Says Tweed to Till - Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness! See where yon climber with its flower-crowned sprays She doth for my comfort stay Sherwood in the twilight, is Robin Hood awake? "She stands alone: ally nor friend has she " Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing 133 Since I have lost the mountains, I Sing a song of scarlet poppies in the corn 299 216 Sing me a song of a lad that is gone So delicate, so airy Stately yon vessel sails adown the tide Stern Daughter of the Voice of God. Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content Teachers pass; and the lesson-pages are torn That the First Charles does here in triumph ride The boats go out and the boats come in - The burden of the State is great The crocus, while the days are dark The days are sad, it is the Holy tide The dewdrops lie bright 'mid the grass and yellow corn The eighth was August, being rich arrayed The news frae Moidart cam' yestreen The old rude church, with bare, bald tower, is here The old sea here at my door There came a whisper down the Bland between the dawn There is a song of England that none shall ever sing · 201 272 213 115 238 217 • 296 There's a land that is happy and fair There's a thing we love to think of when the summer days are long There's some that long for a limpid lake by a blue Italian There was a sound of revelry by night The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er The seas of England are our old delight Page - III 96 112 401 The soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings The spring is over London The steamers that put from the Clyde The sun rises bright in France The sun's on the pavement The time shall come when Wrong shall end The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing They are going, going, going from the valleys and the hills - They are waiting on the shore They have no place in storied page They left the vine-wreathed cottage and the mansion on the This is the Chapel: here, my son This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle - Though till now ungraced in story, scant although thy waters Three fishers went sailing out into the West To sing the nation's song or do the deed To the Lords of Convention 't was Claver'se who spoke 'T was merry in the glowing morn, among the gleaming |