There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass, Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes.

In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemed always afternoon.

There is no joy but calm!

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, From yon blue heavens above us bent The gardener Adam and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems t…

The three-toed tree-toad Sings his sweet ode To the moon; The funny bunny And his honey Trip in tune.

O nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray Warbl'st at eve, when all the woods are still.

Alexandra drew her shawl closer about her and stood leaning against the frame of the mill, looking at the stars which glittered so keenly through the frosty au…