To Eva
O Fair and stately maid, whose eye Was kindled in the upper sky At the same torch that lighted mine; For so I must interpret still Thy sweet dominion o’er my will, A sympathy
Brahma
If the red slayer think he slays, Or if the slain think he is slain, They know not well the subtle ways I keep, and pass, and turn again. Far or forgot to me
Mithridates
I cannot spare water or wine, Tobacco-leaf, or poppy, or rose; From the earth-poles to the Line, All between that works or grows, Every thing is kin of mine. Give me agates for my
The Barberry Bush
The bush that has most briers and bitter fruit, Wait till the frost has turned its green leaves red, Its sweetened berries will thy palate suit, And thou may’st find e’en there a homely
The Forerunners
Long I followed happy guides,- I could never reach their sides. Their step is forth, and, ere the day, Breaks up their leaguer, and away. Keen my sense, my heart was young, Right goodwill
Bacchus
Bring me wine, but wine which never grew In the belly of the grape, Or grew on vine whose tap-roots, reaching through Under the Andes to the Cape, Suffer no savor of the earth
The Snow-Storm
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air Hides hill and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils
Hamatreya
Bulkeley, Hunt, Willard, Hosmer, Meriam, Flint, Possessed the land which rendered to their toil Hay, corn, roots, hemp, flax, apples, wool and wood. Each of these landlords walked amidst his farm, Saying, “‘Tis mine,
Dirge
Knows he who tills this lonely field To reap its scanty corn, What mystic fruit his acres yield At midnight and at morn? In the long sunny afternoon, The plain was full of ghosts,
Fable
The mountain and the squirrel Had a quarrel, And the former called the latter, “little prig”: Bun replied, You are doubtless very big, But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in
Account Of A Visit From St. Nicholas
‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all thro’ the house, Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon