A woman that is like a German clock,
Still a-repairing, ever out of frame,
And never going read more

A woman that is like a German clock,
Still a-repairing, ever out of frame,
And never going aright, being a watch,
But being watched that it may still go right!

These gems have life in them: their colors speak,
Say what words fail of.

These gems have life in them: their colors speak,
Say what words fail of.

It strikes! one, two,
Three, four, five, six. Enough, enough, dear watch,
Thy pulse hath beat enough. read more

It strikes! one, two,
Three, four, five, six. Enough, enough, dear watch,
Thy pulse hath beat enough. Now sleep and rest;
Would thou could'st make the time to do so too;
I'll wind thee up no more.

The glowing Ruby should adorn
Those who in warm July are born,
Then will they be exempt read more

The glowing Ruby should adorn
Those who in warm July are born,
Then will they be exempt and free
From love's doubt and anxiety.

I see, the jewel best enamelled
Will lose his beauty; yet the gold bides still
That others read more

I see, the jewel best enamelled
Will lose his beauty; yet the gold bides still
That others touch, and often touching will
Wear gold; and no man that hath a name,
By falsehood and corruption doth it shame.

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.

More matter for a May morning.

More matter for a May morning.

Guard with jealous attention the public liberty. Suspect everyone who approaches that jewel. Unfortunately, nothing will preserve it but downright read more

Guard with jealous attention the public liberty. Suspect everyone who approaches that jewel. Unfortunately, nothing will preserve it but downright force: Whenever you give up that force, you are inevitably ruined.

When May, with cowslip-braided locks,
Walks through the land in green attire.
And burns in meadow-grass the read more

When May, with cowslip-braided locks,
Walks through the land in green attire.
And burns in meadow-grass the phlox
His torch of purple fire:
. . . .
And when the punctual May arrives,
With cowslip-garland on her brow,
We know what once she gave our lives,
And cannot give us now!