Poetry
American Books
Sort by:
INTRODUCTION This syllabus, or finding-list, is offered to lovers of folk-literature in the hope that it may not be without interest and value to them for purposes of comparison and identification. It includes 333 items, exclusive of 114 variants, and embraces all popular songs that have so far come to hand as having been "learned by ear instead of by eye," as existing through oral...
more...
VOICES OF THE NIGHT <Greek poem here—Euripides.> PRELUDE. Pleasant it was, when woods were green, And winds were soft and low,To lie amid some sylvan scene.Where, the long drooping boughs between,Shadows dark and sunlight sheen Alternate come and go; Or where the denser grove receives No sunlight from above,But the dark foliage interweavesIn one unbroken roof of leaves,Underneath whose...
more...
by:
Robert Frost
The Pasture I'M going out to clean the pasture spring;I'll only stop to rake the leaves away(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):I sha'n't be gone long.—You come too.I'm going out to fetch the little calfThat's standing by the mother. It's so young,It totters when she licks it with her tongue.I sha'n't be gone long.—You come too. SOMETHING there is...
more...
by:
Anonymous
"Pray, what would you like?" said a Toyman, one day,Addressing a group of young folks,"I have toys in abundance, and very cheap, too,Though not quite so cheap as my jokes."Here's a famous managerie, full of wild beasts;See! this lion with wide open jaws,Enough to affright one, and yet I've no doubt,You might venture to play with his claws."Here's a tiger as tame as a...
more...
Flag of The Free Flag of the free, our sable siresHave borne thee oft beforeInto hot battles' hell-lit fires,Against the fiercest foe.When first he shook his shaggy mein,And made the welkin ring,Brave Attucks fell upon the Plain,Thy stripes first crimsoning!Thy might and majesty we hurl,Against the bolts of Mars;And from thy ample folds unfurlThy field of flaming stars!Fond hope to nations in...
more...
THE WAYSIDE INN.One Autumn night, in Sudbury town,Across the meadows bare and brown,The windows of the wayside innGleamed red with fire-light through the leavesOf woodbine, hanging from the eavesTheir crimson curtains rent and thin.As ancient is this hostelryAs any in the land may be,Built in the old Colonial day,When men lived in a grander way,With ampler hospitality;A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall,Now...
more...