One Who Can See Without Seeming To

Fairies, Arouse! Mix With Your Song Harplet And Pipe, Thrilling And Clear, Swarm On The Boughs! Chant In A Throng! Morning Is Ripe, Waiting To Hear.

Writing Is Learning To Say Nothing, More Cleverly Every Day.

Oh, Bring Again My Heart's Content, Thou Spirit Of The Summer-time!

Yet Dearer Still That Irish Hill Than All The World Beside; It's Home, Sweet Home, Where'er I Roam, Through Lands And Waterswide.

Now Autumn's Fire Burns Slowly Along The Woods, And Day By Day The Dead Leaves Fall And Melt, And Night By Night The Monitory Blast Wails In The Key-hole, Telling How It Pass'd O'er Empty Fields, Or Upland Solitudes, Or Grim Wide Wave; And Now The Power Is Felt Of Melancholy, Tenderer In Its Moods Than Any Joy Indulgent Summer Dealt.