English - Poet | December 24, 1818 - September 23, 1889
There's a magical tie to the land of our home, which the heart cannot break, though the footsteps may roam.
Eliza Cook
HomeHeartLandTieBreakMagical
Why should we strive, with cynic frown, to knock their fairy castles down?
DownWhyStriveCastlesFairyKnock
How cruelly sweet are the echoes that start, When memory plays an old tune on the heart.
HeartMemorySweetStartOldHow
Who would not rather trust and be deceived?
TrustDeceivedWouldWhoRather
Though language forms the preacher, 'Tis good works make the man.
GoodManLanguageMakePreacherTis
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