A Psalm of Life
WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST. Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not
The Poet's Calendar
January Janus am I; oldest of potentates; Forward I look, and backward, and below I count, as god of avenues and gates, The years that through my portals come and go. I block the
Hymn to the Night
I heard the trailing garments of the Night Sweep through her marble halls! I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light From the celestial walls! I felt her presence, by its spell of
The Sound of the Sea
The sea awoke at midnight from its sleep, And round the pebbly beaches far and wide I heard the first wave of the rising tide Rush onward with uninterrupted sweep; A voice out of
God's-Acre
I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls The burial-ground God’s-Acre! It is just; It consecrates each grave within its walls, And breathes a benison o’er the sleeping dust. God’s-Acre! Yes, that blessed name
Sir Humphrey Gilbert
Southward with fleet of ice Sailed the corsair Death; Wild and gast blew the blast, And the east-wind was his breath. His lordly ships of ice Glisten in the sun; On each side, like
The Day is Done
The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight. I see the lights of the village Gleam through
Tegner's Drapa
Heard a voice, that cried, “Balder the Beautiful Is dead, is dead!” And through the misty air Passed like the mournful cry Of sunward sailing cranes. I saw the pallid corpse Of the dead
Aftermath
When the summer fields are mown, When the birds are fledged and flown, And the dry leaves strew the path; With the falling of the snow, With the cawing of the crow, Once again
THE QUADROON GIRL
The Slaver in the broad lagoon Lay moored with idle sail; He waited for the rising moon, And for the evening gale. Under the shore his boat was tied, And all her listless crew
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