And so ’t will be when I am gone;
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells.
I’ve watched you now a full half hour
Self-poised upon that yellow flower;
And, little Butterfly! indeed
I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless!—not frozen seas
More motionless!—and then
What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!
This plot of orchard-ground is ours;
My trees they are, my Sister’s flowers:
Here rest your wings when they are weary,
Here lodge as in a sanctuary!
Come often to us, fear no wrong;
Sit near us on the bough!
We’ll talk of sunshine and of song,
And summer days, when we were young;
Sweet childish days, that were as long
As twenty days are now.
To follow one’s nose.
To have a finger in the pie.
To hit the nail on the head.
To kill two birds with one stone.
To make a spoon, or spoil a horn.
To pour oil into the fire is not the way to quench it.
Two heads are better than one.
Waste not, want not.
We easily forget our faults when nobody knows them.
We never know the worth of water till the well is dry.
When Adam delved and Eve span, who was then the gentleman?
When the cat is away, the mice will play.
Strike when the iron is hot.
Where there’s a will, there’s a way.
You cannot eat your cake and have it too.
You must take the fat with the lean.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove;
A maid whom there were none to praise,
And very few to love.
A violet by a mossy stone
Half-hidden from the eye!—
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and oh!
The difference to me.
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray;
And, when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see, at break of day,
The solitary child.
No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
She dwelt on a wide moor,—
The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door!
You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will nevermore be seen.
“To-night will be a stormy night,—
You to the town must go;
And take a lantern, Child, to light
Your mother through the snow.”
“That, Father! will I gladly do:
’T is scarcely afternoon,—
The minster-clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the moon!”