I See A Lily On

I Stood Tip-toe Upon A Little Hill, The Air Was Cooling, And So Very Still, That The Sweet Buds Which With A Modest Pride Pull Droopingly, In Slanting Curve Aside, Their Scantly Leaved, And Finely Tapering Stems, Had Not Yet Lost Those Starry Diadems Caught From The Early Sobbing Of The Morn.

Joy, Whose Hand Is Ever At His Lips, Bidding Adieu

There Was An Awful Rainbow Once In Heaven: We Know Her Woof, Her Texture; She Is Given In The Dull Catalogue Of Common Things. Philosophy Will Clip An Angel's Wings.

The Poppies Hung Dew-dabbled On Their Stalks.

The Roaring Of The Wind Is My Wife And The Stars Through The Window Pane Are My Children.