More Safe I Sing With Mortal Voice,

Yet Once More, O Ye Laurels, And Once More Ye Myrtles Brown, With Ivy Never Sere, I Come To Pluck Your Berries Harsh And Crude, And With Forced Fingers Rude Shatter Your Leaves Before The Mellowing Year.

The Love-lorn Nightingale Nightly To Thee Her Sad Song Mourneth Well.

Blind Mouths! That Scarce Themselves Know How To Hold A Sheep-hook.

Sable-vested Night, Eldest Of Things.

Oft, On A Plat Of Rising Ground, I Hear The Far-off Curfew Sound Over Some Wide-watered Shore, Swinging Low With Sullen Roar.