Down from a sunken doorstep to the road,
Through a warm garden full of old-time flowers,
Stretches a pathway, where the wrinkled toad
Sits lost in sunlight through long summer hours.
Ah, little dream the passers in the street
That there, a few yards from the old house door,
Just where the apple and the pear trees meet,
The noble...
LITTLE Ellie sits alone
Mid the beeches of a meadow,
By a stream-side on the grass,
And the trees are showering down
Doubles of their leaves in shadow,
On her shining hair and face.
She has thrown her bonnet by,
And her feet she has been dipping
In the shallow water’s flow.
Now she holds them nakedly...
No Romance sold unto
Could so enthrall a Man
As the perusal of
His Individual One —
'Tis Fiction's — When 'tis small enough
To Credit — 'Tisn't true!
