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Showing: 1-10 results of 14

They who maintained their rights,Through storm and stress,And walked in all the waysThat God made known,Led by no wandering lights,And by no guess,Through dark and desolate daysOf trial and moan:Here let their monumentRise, like a wordIn rock commemorativeOf our Land's youth;Of ways the Puritan went,With soul love-spurredTo suffer, die, and liveFor faith and truth.Here they the corner-stoneOf Freedom laid;Here in their hearts' distressThey lit... more...

FOREWORD. In the first rare spring of song,In my heart's young hours,In my youth 't was thus I sang,Choosing 'mid the flowers:— "Fair the Dandelion is,But for me too lowly;And the winsome VioletIs, forsooth, too holy.'But the Touchmenot?' Go to!What! a face that's speckledLike a common milking-maid's,Whom the sun hath freckled.Then the Wild-Rose is a flirt;And the trillium Lily,In her spotless gown, 's a prude,Sanctified and silly.By... more...

THE DREAMER Even as a child he loved to thrid the bowers,And mark the loafing sunlight's lazy laugh;Or, on each season, spell the epitaphOf its dead months repeated in their flowers;Or list the music of the strolling showers,Whose vagabond notes strummed through a twinkling staff;Or read the day's delivered monographThrough all the chapters of its dædal hours.Still with the same child-faith and child-regardHe looks on Nature, hearing, at... more...

A FALLEN BEECH Nevermore at doorways that are barkenShall the madcap wind knock and the noonlight;Nor the circle, which thou once didst darken,Shine with footsteps of the neighboring moonlight,Visitors for whom thou oft didst hearken. Nevermore, gallooned with cloudy laces,Shall the morning, like a fair freebooter,Make thy leaves his richest treasure-places;Nor the sunset, like a royal suitor,Clothe thy limbs with his imperial graces. And no... more...

Friend, for the sake of loves we hold in common,The love of books, of paintings, rhyme and fiction;And for the sake of that divine affliction,The love of art, passing the love of woman;—By which all life's made nobler, superhuman,Lifting the soul above, and, without frictionOf Time, that puts failure in his prediction,—Works to some end through hearts that dreams illumine:To you I pour this Cup of Dreams—a striver,And dreamer... more...


The Evanescent Beautiful. Day after Day, young with eternal beauty,Pays flowery duty to the month and clime;Night after night erects a vasty portalOf stars immortal for the march of Time. But where are now the Glory and the Rapture,That once did capture me in cloud and stream?Where now the Joy that was both speech and silence?Where the beguilance that was fact and dream? I know that Earth and Heaven are as goldenAs they of olden made me feel... more...

THE POETRY OF MADISON CAWEIN When a poet begins writing, and we begin liking his work, we own willingly enough that we have not, and cannot have, got the compass of his talent. We must wait till he has written more, and we have learned to like him more, and even then we should hesitate his definition, from all that he has done, if we did not very commonly qualify ourselves from the latest thing he has done. Between the earliest thing and the... more...

PART I LATE SPRING The mottled moth at eventideBeats glimmering wings against the pane;The slow, sweet lily opens wide,White in the dusk like some dim stain;The garden dreams on every sideAnd breathes faint scents of rain.Among the flowering stocks they stand:A crimson rose is in his hand. 1 Outside her garden. He waits musing. Herein the dearness of her is;The thirty perfect days of JuneMade one, in maiden lovelinessWere not more sweet to... more...

Romance I When I go forth to greet the glad-faced Spring,Just at the time of opening apple-buds,When brooks are laughing, winds are whispering,On babbling hillsides or in warbling woods,There is an unseen presence that eludes:—Perhaps a Dryad, in whose tresses clingThe loamy odors of old solitudes,Who, from her beechen doorway, calls; and leadsMy soul to follow; now with dimpling wordsOf leaves; and now with syllables of birds;While here... more...

The Brothers Not far from here, it lies beyondThat low-hilled belt of woods. We'll takeThis unused lane where brambles makeA wall of twilight, and the blondBrier-roses pelt the path and flakeThe margin waters of a pond. This is its fence—or that which wasIts fence once—now, rock rolled from rock,One tangle of the vine and dock,Where bloom the wild petunias;And this its gate, the iron-weeds block,Hot with the insects' dusty buzz.... more...