Happy Valley." {66}

There is a valley green that lies
    'Mid hills, the summer's bower.
The many coloured butterflies
    Flutter from flower to flower.

And round one lush green side of it,
    In gardened homes are laid,
With grief and care compassionate,
    The people of the dead.

There all the voicing summer day
    They sing, the happy rills.
No noisy sound awakes away
    The echo of the hills.

Francis William Lauderdale Adams

Francis William Lauderdale Adams (27 September 1862 – 4 September 1893) was an English writer, poet, dramatist, and social reformer. His literary work often reflected his radical socialist views. Adams lived a life marred by poverty and struggles with his health, eventually committing suicide at the age of 30. Despite his brief life, his contributions to literature and social thought remain significant.

Francis William Lauderdale Adams

Evening Hymn In The Hovels.

Francis William Lauderdale Adams, Simple Poetry

Pere-La-Chaise. {45} (Paris.)

Francis William Lauderdale Adams, Simple Poetry

To India.

Francis William Lauderdale Adams, Simple Poetry

Nationalism And M'Ilwraith! The Queensland Elections Cry, 1888.

Francis William Lauderdale Adams, Simple Poetry

English

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The Valley

Between the beechen hill and the green down
The valley pastures sink;
And the green river runs through their warm green
Northward into the sea.

Dark is the beechen hill these winter days,
The trees swallow the light
And make an evening there when morning shines
And the down heaves to the south.

Only when the sun's low a fire creeps through
The dark of the beechen hill;
While the green down, misty from head to foot,
Grows huge and dim with sleep.

Then in the valley by the yet shining river,
Under the noisy elms,
I know how like twin shadows over me
Rising high, east and west,

Are Love's dark hills, quiet, unchanging, vast,
Sleeping beneath the stars;
While I with those stars in my bosom shining
Move northward to the sea.

John Frederick Freeman

In valleys green and still

In valleys green and still
Where lovers wander maying
They hear from over hill
A music playing.

Behind the drum and fife,
Past hawthornwood and hollow,
Through earth and out of life
The soldiers follow.

The soldiers is the trade:
In any wind or weather
He steals the heart of maid
And man together.

The lover and his lass
Beneath the hawthorn lying
Have heard the soldiers pass,
And both are sighing.

And down the distance they
With dying note and swelling
Walk the resounding way
To the still dwelling.

Alfred Edward Housman

The Valley



 I will walk down to the valley

And lay my head in her breast,

Where are two white doves,

The Queen of Love's,

In a silken nest;

And, all the afternoon,

They croon and croon

The one word "Rest!"

And a little stream

That runs thereby

Sings "Dream!"

Over and over

It sings - 

"O lover,

Dream!"

Richard Le Gallienne

A Holiday Song.

                Away to the hills, away! -
            There is health in the summer air; -
        The rustling bough, and the bending spray,
            And the breath of flowers are there -
The honey-bee's hum and the wild bird's song,
And sunshine and summer winds all day long!

                Away to the hills, away!
            There are peace and calmness there -
        White cloudlets floating in light all day
            Through the blue transparent air, -
Rose-tinted mornings and noontides rare,
And sunsets of crimson and gold are there!

                Away to the hills, away!
            From your weariness and care -
        From toil that has held on with tyrant sway,
            To quiet and calmness there;
And bask in the beauty an...

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)

Sunrise On The Hills.

I stood upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch
Was glorious with the sun's returning march,
And woods were brightened, and soft gales
Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales.
The clouds were far beneath me; - bathed in light
They gathered mid-way round the wooded height,
And, in their fading glory, shone
Like hosts in battle overthrown,
As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance,
Through the grey mist thrust up its shattered lance,
And rocking on the cliff was left
The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft,
The veil of cloud was lifted, and below
Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow
Was darkened by the forest's shade,
Or glistened in the white cascade;
Where upward, in the mellow blush of day,
The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way.

I heard...

William Henry Giles Kingston

Airey-Force Valley

Not a breath of air
Ruffles the bosom of this leafy glen.
From the brook's margin, wide around, the trees
Are steadfast as the rocks; the brook itself,
Old as the hills that feed it from afar,
Doth rather deepen than disturb the calm
Where all things else are still and motionless.
And yet, even now, a little breeze, perchance
Escaped from boisterous winds that rage without,
Has entered, by the sturdy oaks unfelt,
But to its gentle touch how sensitive
Is the light ash! that, pendent from the brow
Of yon dim cave, in seeming silence makes
A soft eye-music of slow-waving boughs,
Powerful almost as vocal harmony
To stay the wanderer's steps and soothe his thoughts.

William Wordsworth