We wreathed about our darling’s head
The morning-glory bright;
Her little face looked out beneath,
So full of life and light,
So lit as with a sunrise,
That we could only say,
“She is the morning-glory true,
And her poor types are...
|
Warm, wild, rainy wind, blowing fitfully, All along the swamp-edge in the rain I go;... |
I hear you, little bird, Oft when the white still... |
Bind us the Morning, mother of the stars |
Will there really be a morning? |
Not least, ’t is ever my delight |
A Bed of ashes and a half-burned brand |
O Let me die a-singing! The morning-glory’s velvet eye |
A Fair little girl sat under a tree Such a number of rooks came over her head, |
Sonnet Xxxiii. |