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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,
Because she hath not won the poet's voice,
To pluck her little stars for ornament,

And that no man were poorer for my choice,
Since she perforce must shine above the rest
In comely looks, because I love her best!

When fancy taketh wing, and wills to go

Where all selected glories blush and bloom,
I search and find the flower that used to grow
Close by the door-stone of the dear old home
The flower whose knitted roots we did divide
For sad transplanting, when the mother died.

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,
It used to make our pulses leap and thrill
To see her lift her shadow from the stone,
And push it in among us o'er the sill
O'erstrow with flowers, and then push softly in,
As if she were our very kith and kin.

THE LITTLE HOUSE ON THE HILL.

So, seeing still at evening's golden close

This shadow with our childish shadows blend,
We came to love our simple four-leaved rose,
As if she were a sister or a friend.

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And if my eyes all flowers but one must lose,
Our wild sweet-brier would be the one to choose.

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,
Without a token my heart to wound,
The little house on the hill!

Take all of best from east to west,
So thou but leave me still

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,
And the purple flags by the mill,
The meadow gay, and the garden-ground,
But leave, O leave me safe and sound
The little house on the hill!

The daisy-lane, and the dove's low plane,
And the cuckoo's tender bill,

Take one and all, but leave the dreams
That turned the rafters to golden beams,
In the little house on the hill!

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,
So softly rippling over the dark,

The song of the whip-poor-will!

Ah, Memory, be sweet to me!
All other fountains chill ;

But leave that song so weird and wild,
Dear as its life to the heart of the child,

In the little house on the hill!

THE OLD HOUSE.

My little birds, with backs as brown
As sand, and throats as white as frost,
I've searched the summer up and down,
And think the other birds have lost
The tunes you sang, so sweet, so low,
About the old house, long ago.

My little flowers, that with your bloom
So hid the grass you grew upon,
A child's foot scarce had any room
Between you, are you dead and gone?

THE OLD HOUSE.

I've searched through fields and gardens rare,
Nor found your likeness anywhere.

My little hearts, that beat so high
With love to God, and trust in men,
O, come to me, and say if I

But dream, or was I dreaming then,
What time we sat within the glow
Of the old house hearth, long ago?

My little hearts, so fond, so true,

I searched the world all far and wide,
And never found the like of you:

God grant we meet the other side
The darkness 'twixt us now that stands,
In that new house not made with hands f

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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,
And all as proudly graceful held ;
Fair, bare bosom "clothed upon

With chastity," like the lady of eld.

Tender lids, that drooping down,
Chide your glances over bold;

Fair, with a golden gleam in the brown,
And brown again in the gleamy gold.

These on your eyes like a splendor fall,
And you marvel not at my love, I see;
But it was not one, and it was not all,

That made her the angel she was to me,

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