Eliza Cook
The Sea-Child
HE crawls to the cliff and plays on a brink Where every eye but his own would shrink; No music he hears but the billow’s noise, And shells and weeds are his only toys.
The Quiet Eye
THE ORB I like is not the one That dazzles with its lightning gleam; That dares to look upon the sun, As though it challenged brighter beam. That orb may sparkle, flash, and roll;
The Old Arm-chair
I LOVE it, I love it ; and who shall dare To chide me for loving that old Arm-chair? I’ve treasured it long as a sainted prize ; I’ve bedewed it with tears, and
Song of the Worm
THE worm, the rich worm, has a noble domain In the field that is stored with its millions of slain ; The charnel-grounds widen, to me they belong, With the vaults of the sepulchre,
Don’t Tell the World that You’re Waiting for Me
THREE summers have gone since the first time we met, love, And still ’tis in vain that I ask thee to wed ; I hear no reply but a gentle ” Not yet, love,”