I see the great world's greater curse, Dark struggles on through darker days, But know not whose the eyes that gaze Through all the sobbing universe. O, Shadow mine! Beneath my brow I feel thy thoughts, and in my heart Thy fondest longings madly start! Thou art myself and I am thou! IN THE VALES. When from these vales I go, That slumber on in dreams, O, will the summer winds dance to and fro, And kiss the streams That play where roses scatter fond perfume And lilies burst with bloom? Glad children of the spring, They moan their music sweet Where tangled grasses wave, and softly sing Where meadows meet, And wildwood shadows drooping bless The groves with happiness. Their soothing songs I hear Among the granite hills, Above the elfin warbles rich and clear From rippling rills, As if they called my soul in future days To wander all their ways. Ah, moaning winds, you seem To fill my musing breast With lullabies that linger as I dream And bring me rest; For melodies from your low voices creep That soothe my heart with sleep! THE WILLOW. A song for the willow, the wild weeping willow, That murmurs a dirge to the rapturous days, And moans when the kiss of the breeze laden billow Entangles and dangles among the sad sprays! A musical ditty to scatter the sadness, A warble of wildness to banish its tears, Till tremulous measures of bountiful gladness Be sounding and bounding through all of the years. The beautiful brooks, as they waken from slumbers, Pause under the shadows that fall from the boughs, And weave their caresses in passionate numbers, While soothing and smoothing the frowns from its brows; But chained in the desolate sorrows of weeping Its heart never warms to the raptures of mirth, And over its bosom no pleasures are creeping While wending and blending their joys with the earth. Then sing for the willow, the wild weeping willow, That droops in the smiles of the summer-born times, And mourns in the kiss of the sweet-scented billow, When beaming and gleaming are dripping with chimes! While melodies move where their happiness lingers, They surely will gladden the tear-laden sprays, And music that flutters from fairy-like fingers Will lighten and brighten the burdensome days. AT THE MILL. The water-wheel goes 'round and 'round With heavy sighs of mournful sound, While dismal cries and weary moans Unite with sad and tearful groans, And weeping waves of water throw Afar the echoes of their sadness, And cadences of plaintive woe Dispel each little note of gladness.