Oh That It Were With Me As

I Watched A Rose-bud Very Long Brought On By Dew And Sun And Shower, Waiting To See The Perfect Flower: Then When I Thought It Should Be Strong It Opened At The Matin Hour And Fell At Even-song.

The Downhill Path Is Easy, But There's No Turning Back.

Gone Were But The Winter, Come Were But The Spring, I Would Go To A Covert Where The Birds Sing; Where In The Whitethorn Singeth A Thrush, And A Robin Sings In The Holly-bush. Full Of Fresh Scents Are The Budding Boughs Arching High Over A Cool Green House: Full Of Sweet Scents, And Whispering Air Which Sayeth Softly: We Spread No Snare; Here Dwell In Safety, Here Dwell Alone, With A Clear Stream And A Mossy Stone. Here The Sun Shineth Most Shadily; Here Is Heard An Echo Of The Far Sea, Though Far Off It Be.

As A Tree My Sin Stands To Darken All Lands; Death Is The Fruit It Bore.

I Have A Room Whereinto No One Enters Save I Myself Alone: There Sits A Blessed Memory On A Throne, There My Life Centres.