How Short Our Happy Days Appear! How

Work Is Its Own Best Earthly Meed, Else Have We None More Than The Sea-born Throng Who Wrought Those Marvellous Isles That Bloom Afar.

For Hearts Where Wakened Love Doth Lurk, How Fine, How Blest A Thing Is Work! For Work Does Good When Reasons Fail.

O Woman! Thou Wert Fashioned To Beguile: So Have All Sages Said, All Poets Sung.

How Gently Rock Yon Poplars High Against The Reach Of Primrose Sky With Heaven's Pale Candles Stored.

When I Remember Something Which I Had, But Which Is Gone, And I Must Do Without, I Sometimes Wonder How I Can Be Glad, Even In Cowslip Time When Hedges Sprout; It Makes Me Sigh To Think On It,--but Yet My Days Will Not Be Better Days, Should I Forget.