Under the opening eyelids of the morn, We drove afield; and both together heard What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night.

Without the meed of some melodious tear.

But O the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone and never must return!

He knew Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.

Fresh beauty opens one's eyes wherever it is really seen, but the very abundance and completeness of the common beauty that besets our steps prevents its being…

It was the silent time before dawn, along the shores of what had been one of the most beautiful lakes in southern Africa.

On Melbourne summer mornings the green trams go rolling in stately progress down tunnels thick with leaves: the bright air carries along the avenue their patie…