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