John Greenleaf Whittier

Immortal love, forever full, Forever flowing free, Forever shared, forever whole, A never ebbing sea! Our outward lips confess the name All other names above; Love only knoweth whence it came, And comprehendeth love.

Pipes of the misty moorlands, Voice of the glens and hills; The droning of the torrents, The treble of the rills! Not the braes of bloom and heather, Nor the mountains dark with rain,

He comes, – he comes, – the Frost Spirit comes! You may trace his footsteps now On the naked woods and the blasted fields And the brown hill’s withered brow. He has smitten the

Blessings on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan! With thy turned-up pantaloons, And thy merry whistled tunes; With thy red lip, redder still Kissed by strawberries on the hill; With the

Is this the land our fathers loved, The freedom which they toiled to win? Is this the soil whereon they moved? Are these the graves they slumber in? Are we the sons by whom

“Tie stille, barn min! Imorgen kommer Fin, Fa’er din, Og gi’er dich Esbern Snares öine og hjerte at lege med!” Zealand Rhyme. “BUILD at Kallundborg by the sea A church as stately as church

I write my name as one, On sands by waves o’errun Or winter’s frosted pane, Traces a record vain. Oblivion’s blankness claims Wiser and better names, And well my own may pass As from

O CHRIST of God! whose life and death Our own have reconciled, Most quietly, most tenderly Take home thy star-named child! Thy grace is in her patient eyes, Thy words are on her tongue;

Oh, greenly and fair in the lands of the sun, The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run, And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold, With broad leaves all

To the Memory of the Household It Describes This Poem is Dedicated by the Author “As the Spirit of Darkness be stronger in the dark, so Good Spirits, which be Angels of Light, are

Call him not heretic whose works attest His faith in goodness by no creed confessed. Whatever in love’s name is truly done To free the bound and lift the fallen one Is done to

In the outskirts of the village On the river’s winding shores Stand the Occidental plane-trees, Stand the ancient sycamores. One long century hath been numbered, And another half-way told Since the rustic Irish gleeman

Maud Muller on a summer’s day Raked the meadow sweet with hay. Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth Of simple beauty and rustic health. Singing, she wrought, and her merry gleee The mock-bird

Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn, The clustered spires of Frederick stand Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. Round about them orchards sweep, Apple and peach tree

The blast from Freedom’s Northern hills, upon its Southern way, Bears greeting to Virginia from Massachusetts Bay: No word of haughty challenging, nor battle bugle’s peal, Nor steady tread of marching files, nor clang

The sun that brief December day Rose cheerless over hills of gray, And, darkly circled, gave at noon A sadder light than waning moon. Slow tracing down the thickening sky Its mute and ominous

My heart was heavy, for its trust had been Abused, its kindness answered with foul wrong; So, turning gloomily from my fellow-men, One summer Sabbath day I strolled among The green mounds of the

Here is the place; right over the hill Runs the path I took; You can see the gap in the old wall still, And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook. There is the house,