Showing: 11-20 results of 897

When Day Is Done When day is done and the night slips down,And I've turned my back on the busy town,And come once more to the welcome gateWhere the roses nod and the children wait,I tell myself as I see them smileThat life is good and its tasks worth while. When day is done and I've come once moreTo my quiet street and the friendly door,Where the Mother reigns and the children playAnd the kettle sings in the old-time way,I throw my coat on a... more...

TO HOPE. Oh! take, young Seraph, take thy harp, And play to me so cheerily; For grief is dark, and care is sharp, And life wears on so wearily. Oh! take thy harp! Oh! sing as thou wert wont to do, When, all youth's sunny season long, I sat and listened to thy song, And yet 'twas ever, ever new, With magic in its heaven-tuned string— The future bliss thy constant theme. Oh! then each little woe took wing Away, like phantoms... more...

I.  FROM FREDERICK GRAHAM. Mother, I smile at your alarms!I own, indeed, my Cousin’s charms,But, like all nursery maladies,Love is not badly taken twice.Have you forgotten Charlotte Hayes,My playmate in the pleasant daysAt Knatchley, and her sister, Anne,The twins, so made on the same plan,That one wore blue, the other white,To mark them to their father’s sight;And how, at Knatchley harvesting,You bade me kiss her in the... more...

BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS AND OTHER VERSES 1889-1891 TO WOLCOTT BALESTIER Beyond the path of the outmost sun through utter darkness hurled —Further than ever comet flared or vagrant star-dust swirled —Live such as fought and sailed and ruled and loved and made our world.They are purged of pride because they died, they know the worth of their bays,They sit at wine with the Maidens Nine and the Gods of the Elder Days,It is their will to... more...

 1. How, my dear Mary,—are you critic-bitten (For vipers kill, though dead) by some review, That you condemn these verses I have written, Because they tell no story, false or true? What, though no mice are caught by a young kitten, _5 May it not leap and play as grown cats do, Till its claws come? Prithee, for this one time, Content thee with a visionary rhyme.  2. What hand would... more...


INTRODUCTION. After the publication of his "Table Talk" and other poems in March, 1782, William Cowper, in his quiet retirement at Olney, under Mrs. Unwin's care, found a new friend in Lady Austen. She was a baronet's widow who had a sister married to a clergyman near Olney, with whom Cowper was slightly acquainted. In the summer of 1781, when his first volume was being printed, Cowper met Lady Austen and her sister in the street at Olney, and... more...

I Pearl that the Prince full well might prize,So surely set in shining gold!No pearl of Orient with her vies;To prove her peerless I make bold:So round, so radiant to mine eyes,smooth she seemed, so small to hold,Among all jewels judges wiseWould count her best an hundred fold.Alas! I lost my pearl of old!I pine with heart-pain unforgot;Down through my arbour grass it rolled,My own pearl, precious, without spot. Since in that spot it slipped... more...

PREFACE. The numerous collections of American verse share, I think, one fault in common: they include too much. Whether this has been a bid for popularity, a concession to Philistia, I cannot say; but the fact remains that all anthologies of American poetry are, so far as I know, more or less uncritical. The aim of the present book is different. In no case has a poem been included because it is widely known. The purpose of this compilation is... more...

PART 1. Nec tantum prodere vati,Quantum scire licet. Venit aetas omnis in unamCongeriem, miserumque premunt tot saecula pectus.LUCAN, Phars. v. 176.How wonderful is Death,Death and his brother Sleep!One pale as yonder wan and horned moon,With lips of lurid blue,The other glowing like the vital morn, 5When throned on ocean's waveIt breathes over the world:Yet both so passing strange and wonderful!Hath then the iron-sceptred Skeleton,Whose reign... more...

WHEN chapman billies leave the street,And drouthy neebors, neebors meet,As market-days are wearing late,An' folk begin to tak the gate;While we sit bousing at the nappy,An' getting fou and unco happy,We think na on the lang Scots miles,The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles,That lie between us and our hame,Whar sits our sulky sullen dame,Gathering her brows like gathering storm,Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. This truth fand honest Tam o'... more...