“The days are cold, the nights are long,The North wind sings a doleful song;Then hush again upon my breast;All merry things are now at rest,Save thee, my pretty love!”

“Now, in this blank of things, a harmony,Home-felt, and home-created,comes to healThat grief for which the senses still supply Fresh food; for only then, when memoryIs hushed, am I at rest. My Friends! restrain those busy cares that would allay my pain;Oh! Leave me to myself, nor let me feelThe officious touch that makes me droop again.”

“Surprised by joy—impatient as the WindI turned to share the transport—Oh! with whomBut thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,That spot which no vicissitude can find?Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind—But how could I forget thee? Through what power,Even for the least division of an hour,Have I been so beguiled as to be blindTo my most grievous loss!—That thought's returnWas the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;That neither present time, nor years unbornCould to my sight that heavenly face restore.”

“For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude”

“Therefore, let the moon shine on thee in thy solitary walk; And let the misty-mountain winds be free to blow against thee.”

“I'll teach my boy the sweetest things;I'll teach him how the owlet sings.”

“She was a Phantom of delightWhen first she gleam'd upon my sight;A lovely Apparition, sentTo be a moment's ornament:Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair;But all things else about her drawnFrom May-time and the cheerful dawn;A dancing shape, an image gay,To haunt, to startle, and waylay.”