Yea, so I think my native wilding brier, With just her thin four leaves, and stem so rough, Could, with her sweetness, give me my desire, Aye, all my life long give me sweets enough; For though she be not vaunted to excel, She in all modest grace aboundeth well. And I would have no whit the less content, And that no man were poorer for my choice, When fancy taketh wing, and wills to go Where all selected glories blush and bloom, All of the early and the latter May, And through the windless heats of middle June, Our green-armed brier held for us day by day, The morning coolness till the afternoon ; And every bird that took his grateful share, Sang with a heavenlier tongue than otherwhere. And when from out the west the low sun shone, THE LITTLE HOUSE ON THE HILL. So, seeing still at evening's golden close This shadow with our childish shadows blend, 283 And if my eyes all flowers but one must lose, THE LITTLE HOUSE ON THE HILL. O MEMORY, be sweet to me Take, take all else at will, So thou but leave me safe and sound, Take all of best from east to west, The chamber, where in the starry light I used to lie awake at night And list to the whip-poor-will. Take violet-bed, and rose-tree red, The daisy-lane, and the dove's low plane, Take one and all, but leave the dreams The gables brown, they have tumbled down, And dry is the brook by the mill; The sheets I used with care to keep Have wrapt my dead for the last long sleep, In the valley, low and still. But, Memory, be sweet to me, And build the walls, at will, Of the chamber where I used to mark, The song of the whip-poor-will! Ah, Memory, be sweet to me! But leave that song so weird and wild, In the little house on the hill! THE OLD HOUSE. My little birds, with backs as brown My little flowers, that with your bloom THE OLD HOUSE. I've searched through fields and gardens rare, My little hearts, that beat so high But dream, or was I dreaming then, My little hearts, so fond, so true, I searched the world all far and wide, God grant we meet the other side 285 FOR THE LOST. LOST LILIES. SHOW you her picture? Here it lies! Hands of lilies, and lily-like brow; Mouth that is bright as a rose, and eyes That are just the soul's sweetest overflow. Darling shoulders, softly pale, Borne by the undulating play Of the life below, up out of their veil, Like lilies out o' the waves o' the May. Throat as white as the throat of a swan, With chastity," like the lady of eld. Tender lids, that drooping down, Fair, with a golden gleam in the brown, These on your eyes like a splendor fall, That made her the angel she was to me, |