Fishe and gesse in three dayes are stale.

Sweet in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers,
Lull'd by the faint breezes sighing through her hair;
Sleeps she and hears not the melancholy numbers
Breathed to my sad lute 'mid the lonely air.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.

Earth, left silent by the wind of night, Seems shrunken 'neath the gray unmeasured height.

His cherished woods are mute. The stream glides down </br> The hill as when I knew it years ago; </br> The dark, pine arbor with its priestly gown </br> Stands hushed, as if our grief it still would show.

God's mills grind slow,
But they grind woe.

Winter lies too long in country towns; hangs on until it is stale and shabby, old and sullen.

743. God's mill grinds slow but sure.

They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves.

ye!the godless are the dull and the dull are the damned

Vast wings above the lambent waters brood
Of sullen day.

Coldly, sadly descends The autumn evening. The Field Strewn with its dank yellow drifts Of wither’d leaves, and the elms, Fade into dimness apace, Silent;—hardly a shout From a few boys late at their play!

Dussel promised her the moon, but, as usual, we haven’t seen so much as a beam.

Still waters run deep