“Evening by eveningAmong the Brookside rushes,Laura bow'd her head to hear,Lizzie veil'd her blushes:Crouching close togetherIn the cooling weather,With clasping arms and cautioning lips,With tingling cheeks and fingertips."lie close," Laura said,Pricking up her golden head:"We must not look at Goblin men,We must not buy their fruits:who knows upon the soil they fedTheir hungry thirsty roots?""Come buy," call the GoblinsHobbling down the glen”

“We must not look at goblin men,We must not buy their fruits:Who knows upon what soil they fedTheir hungry thirsty roots?”

“She cried, "Laura," up the garden,"Did you miss me?Come and kiss me.Never mind my bruises,Hug me, kiss me, suck my juicesSqueezed from goblin fruits for you,Goblin pulp and goblin dew.Eat me, drink me, love me;Laura, make much of me;For your sake I have braved the glenAnd had to do with goblin merchant men.”

“Golden head by golden head,Like two pigeons in one nestFolded in each other's wings,They lay down in their curtained bed:Like two blossoms on one stem,Like two flakes of new-fall'n snow,Like two wands of ivoryTipped with gold for awful kings.Moon and stars gazed in at them,Wind sang to them lullaby,Lumbering owls forbore to fly,Not a bat flapped to and froRound their rest:Cheek to cheek and breast to breastLocked together in one nest.”

“He feeds upon her face by day and night,And she with true kind eyes looks back on him,Fair as the moon and joyful as the light:Not wan with waiting, not with sorrow dim;Not as she is, but was when hope shone bright;Not as she is, but as she fills his dream.”

“In an Artist’s StudioOne face looks out from all his canvases,One selfsame figure sits or walks or leans:We found her hidden just behind those screens,That mirror gave back all her loveliness.A queen in opal or in ruby dress,A nameless girl in freshest summer-greens,A saint, an angel - every canvas meansThe same one meaning, neither more nor less.He feeds upon her face by day and night,And she with true kind eyes looks back on him,Fair as the moon and joyful as the light:Not wan with waiting, not with sorrow dim;Not as she is, but was when hope shone bright;Not as she is, but as she fills his dream.”

“Somewhere or other there must surely beThe face not seen, the voice not heard,The heart that not yet - never yet — ah me!Made answer to my word.Somewhere or other, may be near or far;Past land and sea, clean out of sight;Beyond the wandering moon, beyond the starThat tracks her night by night.Somewhere or other, may be far or near;With just a wall, a hedge, between;With just the last leaves of the dying yearFallen on a turf grown green. ”