Old England is our home, and Englishmen are we; Our tongue is known in every clime, our flag in every sea.
For visions come not to polluted eyes. - Mary Howitt
For visions come not to polluted eyes.
- Mary Howitt
Old England is our home, and Englishmen are we; Our tongue is known in every clime, our flag in every sea. - Mary Howitt
He is happiest who hath power to gather wisdom from a flower. - Mary Howitt
He is happiest who hath power to gather wisdom from a flower.
Yes, in the poor man's garden grow Far more than herbs and flowers - Kind thoughts, contentment, peace of mind, And Joy for weary hours. - Mary Howitt
Yes, in the poor man's garden grow Far more than herbs and flowers - Kind thoughts, contentment, peace of mind, And Joy for weary hours.
The wild sea roars and lashes the granite cliffs below,And round the misty islets the loud strong tempests blow. - Mary Howitt
The wild sea roars and lashes the granite cliffs below,And round the misty islets the loud strong tempests blow.
Will you walk into my parlour? Said the spider to a fly: '"Tis the prettiest little parlour That ever you did spy. - Mary Howitt
Will you walk into my parlour? Said the spider to a fly: '"Tis the prettiest little parlour That ever you did spy.
Buttercups and daisies, Oh, the pretty flowers; Coming ere the spring time, To tell of sunny hours. When the trees are leafless; When the fields… - Mary Howitt
Buttercups and daisies, Oh, the pretty flowers; Coming ere the spring time, To tell of sunny hours. When the trees are leafless; When the fields…
God sends children for another purpose than merely to keep up the race - to enlarge our hearts; and to make us unselfish and full of kindly sympathie… - Mary Howitt
God sends children for another purpose than merely to keep up the race - to enlarge our hearts; and to make us unselfish and full of kindly sympathie…
Oh the Broom, the yellow Broom, The ancient poet sung it, And dear it is on summer days To lie at rest among it. I know the realms where people … - Mary Howitt
Oh the Broom, the yellow Broom, The ancient poet sung it, And dear it is on summer days To lie at rest among it. I know the realms where people …
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