Poetry Books

How Lisa loved the King. Six hundred years ago, in Dante’s time,Before his cheek was furrowed by deep rhyme;When Europe, fed afresh from Eastern story,Was like a garden tangled with the gloryOf flowers hand-planted and of flowers air-sown,Climbing and trailing, budding and full-blown,Where purple bells are tossed amid pink stars,And springing blades, green troops in innocent wars,Crowd every shady... more...

HYMEN As from a temple service, tall and dignified, with slow pace, each a queen, the sixteen matrons from the temple of Hera pass before the curtain—a dark purple hung between Ionic columns—of the porch or open hall of a palace. Their hair is bound as the marble hair of the temple Hera. Each wears a crown or diadem of gold. They sing—the music is temple music, deep, simple, chanting notes:From... more...

HYMNS.     "SUFFER LITTLE CHILDREN TO COME UNTO ME.""Let little children come to me,"—This is what the Saviour said;Little children, come and seeWhere these gracious words are read.Often on these pages look,—Of the love of God they tell;'Tis indeed a holy book,—Learn to read and love it well.Thus you hear the Saviour speak,—"Come ye all and learn of me";He was... more...

               And indeed He seems to me  Scarce other than my king's ideal knight,  'Who reverenced his conscience as his king;  Whose glory was, redressing human wrong;  Who spake no slander, no, nor listened to it;  Who loved one only and who clave to her—'  Her—over all whose realms to their last isle,  Commingled with the gloom of imminent... more...

Hannibal. Could a Numidian horseman ride no faster? Marcellus! oh! Marcellus! He moves not—he is dead. Did he not stir his fingers? Stand wide, soldiers—wide, forty paces; give him air; bring water; halt! Gather those broad leaves, and all the rest, growing under the brushwood; unbrace his armour. Loose the helmet first—his breast rises. I fancied his eyes were fixed on me—they have rolled back... more...

In Flanders Fields In Flanders fields the poppies blowBetween the crosses, row on row,That mark our place; and in the skyThe larks, still bravely singing, flyScarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days agoWe lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,Loved and were loved, and now we lie,In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe:To you from failing hands we throwThe torch; be yours... more...

In Macao. A Story from the "Grasshopper's Library." I was seated one pleasant day in the garden, which was given to the city of Macao by the Marcos family, near the grotto sacred to the poet Camoens, when a Portuguese priest came from among the wilderness of flowers and sat beside me. He spoke English with a pleasant accent and we read Bowring's effusion together, as it is engraved on... more...

To an Old Mate Old Mate! In the gusty old weather,When our hopes and our troubles were new,In the years spent in wearing out leather,I found you unselfish and true —I have gathered these verses togetherFor the sake of our friendship and you. You may think for awhile, and with reason,Though still with a kindly regret,That I've left it full late in the seasonTo prove I remember you yet;But... more...

The Hill People.Their steps are light and exceedingly fleet:They pass me by in the hurrying street.I pause to look at a window’s show—From the white-flecked alp the hill winds blow—And all at once it has passed me there,Lilting back to the land of the air,Back to the land of the great white stills:Is it only the wind that comes down from the hills?———Was it Pikes Peak Pixie or Cheyenne... more...

IN THE SEVEN WOODS. I have heard the pigeons of the Seven Woods Make their faint thunder, and the garden bees Hum in the lime tree flowers; and put away The unavailing outcries and the old bitterness That empty the heart. I have forgot awhile Tara uprooted, and new commonness Upon the throne and crying about the streets And hanging its paper flowers from post to post, Because it is alone of all things... more...