Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather!

Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.

High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and gray
He's nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music
On cold starry nights
To sup with the Queen
Of the gay Northern Lights.

They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back,
Between the night and morrow,
They thought that she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of flag-leaves,
Watching till she wake.

By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn-trees
For pleasure here and there.
If any man so daring
As dig them up in spite,
He shall find their sharpest thorns
In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather!

- William Allingham
(19 March 1824 – 18 November 1889)

The Boy from his bedroom-window
Look'd over the little town,
And away to the bleak black upland
Under a clouded moon.

The moon came forth from her cavern,
He saw the sudden gleam
Of a tarn in the swarthy moorland;
Or perhaps the whole was a dream.

For I never could find that water
In all my walks and rides:
Far-off, in the Land of Memory,
That midnight pool abides.

Many fine things had I glimpse of,
And said, 'I shall.find them one day.'
Whether within or without me
They were, I cannot say.

- William Allingham
(19 March 1824 – 18 November 1889)

Among the summer woodlands wide
Anew she roams, no more alone                                                                   (Alfred Austin, Agatha)
And the white mist curling and hesitating
Like a bashful lover about your knees                                          (Richard Aldington, The Poplar)
She walks in beauty, like the night            
A heart whose love is innocent                                                   (Lord Byron, She Walks In Beauty)

Chequer'd with woven shadows as I lay
Among the grass, blinking the watery gleam   (William Allingham, A Day-Dream's Reflection)
I try to think of some one lovely gift
No lover yet in all the world has found                                              (Richard Aldington, Prelude)
A sunset's mounded cloud
A diamond evening-star                                                               (William Allingham, An Evening)

I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields    (J. Keats, To a Friend Who Sent Me Some Roses)
It was a little budding rose
But sweet was the slight and spicy smell                            (Emily Bronte, A Little Budding Rose)
Plucked I for my love's delight.                                                          (Rudyard Kipling, Blue Roses)

But in the sun he sang with cheerful heart
Of coloured season and the whirling sphere                                   (William Allingham, A Singer)
I told my love, I told my love
I told her all my heart                                                                           (William Blake, Love’s Secret)

Arise from out the dewy grass                      (William Blake, Songs Of Experience: Introduction)
So much grace, and so approve her,
That for everything I love her.                                                                       (William Browne, Song)
All thoughts, all passions, all delights
Whatever stirs this mortal frame
All are but ministers of Love                                                                       (Samuel Coleridge, Love)

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise
I love thee with the passion put to use                                                   (E. B. Browning, Sonnet 43)
Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed                                                 (E. B. Browning, Sonnet 10)


In secret we met—                                                                      (Lord Byron, When We Two Parted)
Beneath such dreamy weather                                 (Lewis Carroll, All In The Golden Afternoon)
The long grass now
Waves dreamily in the evening wind                                             (Emily Bronte, The Sun Has Set)
A flower was offered to me
Such a flower as May never bore                                           (William Blake, My Pretty Rose Tree)

In movement, in dancing                                          (Raymond A Foss, In Movement, in Dancing)
flowing, spinning
twirling, to the dance of love                                                                  (Raymond A Foss, Dancing)
surrendering to his leading                                                        (Raymond A Foss, Dancing Today)
To be fond of dancing was a certain
step towards falling in love                                                          (Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice)

A shudder comes o'er me—                                                      (Lord Byron, When We Two Parted)
Whereat the lips, moved with delight and pleasure
Through a sweet smile unlock'd their pearly treasure                 (Thomas Carew, Lips and Eyes)
Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth                                                      (Song of Songs 1:1)
First time he kissed me, he but only kissed                                            (E. B. Browning Sonnet 38)

Why, when I gaze on Phaon's beauteous eyes,
Why does each thought in wild disorder stray?      (Mary Darby Robinson, Why, When I Gaze)

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise
I love thee with the passion put to use                                                   (E. B. Browning, Sonnet 43)
Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed                                                 (E. B. Browning, Sonnet 10)