I love to see the shaking twig Dance till the shut of eve, The sparrow on the cottage rig, Whose chirp would make believe That Spring was just now flirting by, In Summer's lap with flowers to lie. I love to see the cottage smoke Curl upwards through the trees, The pigeons nestled round the cote On November days like these; The cock upon the dunghill crowing, The mill sails on the heath a-going. The feather from the raven's breast Falls on the stubble lea, The acorns near the old crow's nest Drop pattering down the tree; The grunting pigs, that wait for all, Scramble and hurry where they fall. EARLY LOVE The Spring of life is o'er with me, And love and all gone by; Like broken bough upon yon tree, I'm left to fade and die. Stern ruin seized my home and me, And desolate's my cot: Ruins of halls, the blasted tree, Are emblems of my lot. I lived and loved, I woo'd and won, Her love was all to me, But blight fell o'er that youthful one, And like a blasted tree I withered, till I all forgot But Mary's smile on me; She never lived where love was not, And I from bonds was free. The Spring it clothed the fields with pride, When first we met together; And then unknown to all beside We loved in sunny weather; We met where oaks grew overhead, And whitethorns hung with may; Wild thyme beneath her feet was spread, And cows in quiet lay. I thought her face was sweeter far Than aught I'd seen before-- As simple as the cowslips are Upon the rushy moor: She seemed the muse of that sweet spot, The lady of the plain, And all was dull where she was not, Till we met there again. EVENING 'T is evening: the black snail has got on his track, And gone to its nest is the wren, And the packman snail, too, with his home on his back, Clings to the bowed bents like a wen. The shepherd has made a rude mark with his foot Where his shadow reached when he first came, And it just touched the tree where his secret love cut Two letters that stand for love's name. The evening comes in with the wishes of love, And the shepherd he looks on the flowers, And thinks who would praise the soft song of the dove, And meet joy in these dew-falling hours. For Nature is love, and finds haunts for true love, Where nothing can hear or intrude; It hides from the eagle and joins with the dove, In beautiful green solitude. A VALENTINE Here's a valentine nosegay for Mary, Some of Spring's earliest flowers; The ivy is green by the dairy, And so are these laurels of ours. Though the snow fell so deep and the winter was dreary, The laurels are green and the sparrows are cheery.