The Three Kings
Three Kings came riding from far away, Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar; Three Wise Men out of the East were they, And they travelled by night and they slept by day, For their guide
Maidenhood
Maiden! with the meek, brown eyes, In whose orbs a shadow lies Like the dusk in evening skies! Thou whose locks outshine the sun, Golden tresses, wreathed in one, As the braided streamlets run!
The Death Of Kwasind
Far and wide among the nations Spread the name and fame of Kwasind; No man dared to strive with Kwasind, No man could compete with Kwasind. But the mischievous Puk-Wudjies, They the envious Little
Burial of the Minnisink
On sunny slope and beechen swell, The shadowed light of evening fell; And, where the maple’s leaf was brown, With soft and silent lapse came down, The glory, that the wood receives, At sunset,
A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE
This is the place. Stand still, my steed, Let me review the scene, And summon from the shadowy Past The forms that once have been. The Past and Present here unite Beneath Time’s flowing
The Spirit of Poetry
There is a quiet spirit in these woods, That dwells where’er the gentle south-wind blows; Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade, The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air, The leaves above
WALTER VON DER VOGELWEID
Vogelweid the Minnesinger, When he left this world of ours, Laid his body in the cloister, Under Wurtzburg’s minster towers. And he gave the monks his treasures, Gave them all with this behest: They
THE WARNING
Beware! The Israelite of old, who tore The lion in his path, when, poor and blind, He saw the blessed light of heaven no more, Shorn of his noble strength and forced to grind
Keats
The young Endymion sleeps Endymion’s sleep; The shepherd-boy whose tale was left half told! The solemn grove uplifts its shield of gold To the red rising moon, and loud and deep The nightingale is
Ultima Thule: Dedication to G. W. G
With favoring winds, o’er sunlit seas, We sailed for the Hesperides, The land where golden apples grow; But that, ah! that was long ago. How far, since then, the ocean streams Have swept us
Hiawatha's Wooing
“As unto the bow the cord is, So unto the man is woman; Though she bends him, she obeys him, Though she draws him, yet she follows; Useless each without the other!” Thus the
CURFEW
I. Solemnly, mournfully, Dealing its dole, The Curfew Bell Is beginning to toll. Cover the embers, And put out the light; Toil comes with the morning, And rest with the night. Dark grow the
Daylight and Moonlight
In broad daylight, and at noon, Yesterday I saw the moon Sailing high, but faint and white, As a schoolboy’s paper kite. In broad daylight, yesterday, I read a poet’s mystic lay; And it
The Reaper and the Flowers
There is a Reaper, whose name is Death, And, with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between. “Shall I have naught that is fair?”
Nature
As a fond mother, when the day is o’er, Leads by the hand her little child to bed, Half willing, half reluctant to be led, And leave his broken playthings on the floor, Still
The Skeleton in Armor
“Speak! speak I thou fearful guest Who, with thy hollow breast Still in rude armor drest, Comest to daunt me! Wrapt not in Eastern balms, Bat with thy fleshless palms Stretched, as if asking
Sunrise on the Hills
I stood upon the hills, when heaven’s wide arch Was glorious with the sun’s returning march, And woods were brightened, and soft gales Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales. The clouds were far
The Four Winds
“Honor be to Mudjekeewis!” Cried the warriors, cried the old men, When he came in triumph homeward With the sacred Belt of Wampum, From the regions of the North-Wind, From the kingdom of Wabasso,
The Village Blacksmith
Under a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. His hair
Hymn of the Moravian Nuns of Bethlehem at the Consecration of Pulaski's Banner
When the dying flame of day Through the chancel shot its ray, Far the glimmering tapers shed Faint light on the cowled head; And the censer burning swung, Where, before the altar, hung The
An April Day
When the warm sun, that brings Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, ‘T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springs The first flower of the plain. I love the season well, When
Belisarius
I am poor and old and blind; The sun burns me, and the wind Blows through the city gate And covers me with dust From the wheels of the august Justinian the Great. It
MEZZO CAMMIN
Half of my life is gone, and I have let The years slip from me and have not fulfilled The aspiration of my youth, to build Some tower of song with lofty parapet. Not
THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP
In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp The hunted Negro lay; He saw the fire of the midnight camp, And heard at times a horse’s tramp And a bloodhound’s distant bay. Where will-o’-the-wisps and
Introduction To The Song Of Hiawatha
Should you ask me, Whence these stories? Whence these legends and traditions, With the odors of the forest With the dew and damp of meadows, With the curling smoke of wigwams, With the rushing
It is not Always May
No hay pajaros en los nidos de antano. Spanish Proverb The sun is bright, the air is clear, The darting swallows soar and sing. And from the stately elms I hear The bluebird prophesying
Moonlight
As a pale phantom with a lamp Ascends some ruin’s haunted stair, So glides the moon along the damp Mysterious chambers of the air. Now hidden in cloud, and now revealed, As if this
The Cross of Snow
In the long, sleepless watches of the night, A gentle face the face of one long dead Looks at me from the wall, where round its head The night-lamp casts a halo of pale
THE SLAVE'S DREAM
Beside the ungathered rice he lay, His sickle in his hand; His breast was bare, his matted hair Was buried in the sand. Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, He saw his
THE OCCULTATION OF ORION
I saw, as in a dream sublime, The balance in the hand of Time. O’er East and West its beam impended; And day, with all its hours of light, Was slowly sinking out of
Footsteps of Angels
When the hours of Day are numbered, And the voices of the Night Wake the better soul, that slumbered, To a holy, calm delight; Ere the evening lamps are lighted, And, like phantoms grim
NUREMBERG
In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, Stands. Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and Song, Memories
The Goblet of Life
Filled is Life’s goblet to the brim; And though my eyes with tears are dim, I see its sparkling bubbles swim, And chant a melancholy hymn With solemn voice and slow. No purple flowers,
TO THE DRIVING CLOUD
Gloomy and dark art thou, O chief of the mighty Omahas; Gloomy and dark as the driving cloud, whose name thou hast taken! Wrapt in thy scarlet blanket, I see thee stalk through the
Woods in Winter
When winter winds are piercing chill, And through the hawthorn blows the gale, With solemn feet I tread the hill, That overbrows the lonely vale. O’er the bare upland, and away Through the long