Away from the city’s herds! 
  Away from the noisy street! 
Away from the storm of words,
  Where hateful and hating meet!

Away from the vapour grey,
  That like a boding of ill
Is blotting the morning gay,
  And gathers and darkens still!

Away from the stupid book! 
  For, like the fog’s weary rest,
With anger dull it fills each nook
  Of my aching and misty breast.

Over some shining shore,
  There hangeth a space of blue;
A parting ’mid thin clouds hoar
  Where the sunlight is falling through.

The glad waves are kissing the shore
  Rejoice, and tell it for ever;
The boat glides on, while its oar
  Is flashing out of the river.

Oh to be there with thee! 
  Thou and I only, my love! 
The sparkling, sands and the sea! 
  And the sunshine of God above!

MY EYES MAKE PICTURES.

“My eyes make pictures, when they are shut.” 
    COLERIDGE.

Fair morn, I bring my greeting
  To lofty skies, and pale,
Save where cloud-shreds are fleeting
  Before the driving gale,
The weary branches tossing,
  Careless of autumn’s grief,
Shadow and sunlight crossing
  On each earth-spotted leaf.

I will escape their grieving;
  And so I close my eyes,
And see the light boat heaving
  Where the billows fall and rise;
I see the sunlight glancing
  Upon its silvery sail,
Where a youth’s wild heart is dancing,
  And a maiden growing pale.

And I am quietly pacing
  The smooth stones o’er and o’er,
Where the merry waves are chasing
  Each other to the shore. 
Words come to me while listening
  Where the rocks and waters meet,
And the little shells are glistening
  In sand-pools at my feet.

Away! the white sail gleaming! 
  Again I close my eyes,
And the autumn light is streaming
  From pale blue cloudless skies;
Upon the lone hill falling
  ’Mid the sound of heather-bells,
Where the running stream is calling
  Unto the silent wells.

Along the pathway lonely,
  My horse and I move slow;
No living thing, save only
  The home-returning crow. 
And the moon, so large, is peering
  Up through the white cloud foam;
And I am gladly nearing
  My father’s house, my home.

As I were gently dreaming
  The solemn trees look out;
The hills, the waters seeming
  In still sleep round about;
And in my soul are ringing
  Tones of a spirit-lyre,
As my beloved were singing
  Amid a sister-choir.

If peace were in my spirit,
  How oft I’d close my eyes,
And all the earth inherit,
  And all the changeful skies! 
Thus leave the sermon dreary,
  Thus leave the lonely hearth;
No more a spirit weary—­
  A free one of the earth!