On A Palmetto
Through all that year-scarred agony of height, Unblest of bough or bloom, to where expands His wandy circlet with his bladed bands Dividing every wind, or loud or light, To termless hymns of love
Night And Day
The innocent, sweet Day is dead. Dark Night hath slain her in her bed. O, Moors are as fierce to kill as to wed! Put out the light, said he. A sweeter light than
A Florida Ghost
Down mildest shores of milk-white sand, By cape and fair Floridian bay, Twixt billowy pines a surf asleep on land And the great Gulf at play, Past far-off palms that filmed to nought, Or
Souls And Rain-Drops
Light rain-drops fall and wrinkle the sea, Then vanish, and die utterly. One would not know that rain-drops fell If the round sea-wrinkles did not tell. So souls come down and wrinkle life And
Clover
Inscribed to the Memory of John Keats. Dear uplands, Chester’s favorable fields, My large unjealous Loves, many yet one A grave good-morrow to your Graces, all, Fair tilth and fruitful seasons! Lo, how still!
From The Flats
What heartache ne’er a hill! Inexorable, vapid, vague and chill The drear sand-levels drain my spirit low. With one poor word they tell me all they know; Whereat their stupid tongues, to tease my
Corn
To-day the woods are trembling through and through With shimmering forms, that flash before my view, Then melt in green as dawn-stars melt in blue. The leaves that wave against my cheek caress Like
Special Pleading
Time, hurry my Love to me: Haste, haste! Lov’st not good company? Here’s but a heart-break sandy waste ‘Twixt Now and Then. Why, killing haste Were best, dear Time, for thee, for thee! Oh,
An Evening Song
Look off, dear Love, across the sallow sands, And mark yon meeting of the sun and sea, How long they kiss in sight of all the lands. Ah! longer, longer, we. Now in the
My Springs
In the heart of the Hills of Life, I know Two springs that with unbroken flow Forever pour their lucent streams Into my soul’s far Lake of Dreams. Not larger than two eyes, they
On Violet's Wafers, Sent Me When I Was Ill
Fine-tissued as her finger-tips, and white As all her thoughts; in shape like shields of prize, As if before young Violet’s dreaming eyes Still blazed the two great Theban bucklers bright That swayed the
The Power Of Prayer
or, The First Steamboat up the Alabama. You, Dinah! Come and set me whar de ribber-roads does meet. De Lord, HE made dese black-jack roots to twis’ into a seat. Umph, dar! De Lord
The Harlequin Of Dreams
Swift, through some trap mine eyes have never found, Dim-panelled in the painted scene of Sleep, Thou, giant Harlequin of Dreams, dost leap Upon my spirit’s stage. Then Sight and Sound, Then Space and
Hymns Of The Marshes
I. Sunrise. In my sleep I was fain of their fellowship, fain Of the live-oak, the marsh, and the main. The little green leaves would not let me alone in my sleep; Up-breathed from
The Bee
What time I paced, at pleasant morn, A deep and dewy wood, I heard a mellow hunting-horn Make dim report of Dian’s lustihood Far down a heavenly hollow. Mine ear, though fain, had pain