In the Jewish Synagogue at Newport
Here, where the noises of the busy town, The ocean’s plunge and roar can enter not, We stand and gaze around with tearful awe, And muse upon the consecrated spot. No signs of life
Success
Oft have I brooded on defeat and pain, The pathos of the stupid, stumbling throng. These I ignore to-day and only long To pour my soul forth in one trumpet strain, One clear, grief-shattering,
To R. W. E
As when a father dies, his children draw About the empty hearth, their loss to cheat With uttered praise & love, & oft repeat His all-familiar words with whispered awe. The honored habit of
Influence
The fervent, pale-faced Mother ere she sleep, Looks out upon the zigzag-lighted square, The beautiful bare trees, the blue night-air, The revelation of the star-strewn deep, World above world, and heaven over heaven. Between
Sympathy
Therefore I dare reveal my private woe, The secret blots of my imperfect heart, Nor strive to shrink or swell mine own desert, Nor beautify nor hide. For this I know, That even as
The New Colossus
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, With conquering limbs astride from land to land; Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame Is the
The Supreme Sacrifice
Well-nigh two thousand years hath Israel Suffered the scorn of man for love of God; Endured the outlaw’s ban, the yoke, the rod, With perfect patience. Empires rose and fell, Around him Nebo was
Long Island Sound
I see it as it looked one afternoon In August,-by a fresh soft breeze o’erblown. The swiftness of the tide, the light thereon, A far-off sail, white as a crescent moon. The shining waters
Venus of the Louvre
Down the long hall she glistens like a star, The foam-born mother of Love, transfixed to stone, Yet none the less immortal, breathing on. Time’s brutal hand hath maimed but could not mar. When