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Wings have we, and as far as we can go
We may find pleasure: wilderness and wood,
Blank ocean and mere sky, supports that mood,
Which with the lofty sanctifies the low :
Dreams, books, are each a world : and books, we know,
Are a substantial world, both pure and good,
Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,
Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
The poet's pen is the true divining-rod,
Which trembles towards the inner founts of feeling ;
Bringing to light and use, else hid from all,
The many sweet clear sources which we have
Of good and beauty in our own deep bosom.
COME not, when I am dead,
To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave,
To trample round my fallen head,
And vex th' unhappy dust thou would'st not save.
Then let the wind sweep and the plover cry,
But thou go by
Oh! talk not to me of a name great in story,
The days of our youth are the days of our glory ;
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.
FROM the sad hours of life
We sometimes do short hours, aye-minutes strike,
Keen, blissful, bright, never to be forgotten,
Which, through the dreary gloom of Time o'erpast,
Shine like fair sunny spots on a wild coast.
Oh! would some power the giftie gi' us,
To see oursels as others see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us,
And foolish notion.
NOBLE he was, contemning all things mean,
His truth unquestioned, and his soul serene.
Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace,
Truth, simple truth, was written in his face.
For me the soft descent of chesnut flowers,
The lovely laughter of the wind-swayed wheat,
The easy slope of yonder pastoral hill;
The sedgy brook whereby the red kine meet,
And wade and drink their fill.
A TREASURE may be ours, Only we know it not, or know, perchance, Unconscious of its worth !