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Showing: 51-60 results of 97

BYTOWN. CHAPTER I.In '28, on Patrick's Day,At one p.m., there came this wayFrom Richmond, in the dawn of spring,He who doth now the glories singOf ancient Bytown, as 'twas then,A place of busy working men,Who handled barrows and pickaxes,Tamping irons and broadaxes,And paid no Corporation taxes;Who, without license onward carriedAll kinds of trade, but getting married;Stout, sinewy, and hardy chaps,Who'd take and pay back adverse raps,Nor ever... more...

Renascence and Other Poems Renascence All I could see from where I stoodWas three long mountains and a wood;I turned and looked another way,And saw three islands in a bay.So with my eyes I traced the lineOf the horizon, thin and fine,Straight around till I was comeBack to where I'd started from;And all I saw from where I stoodWas three long mountains and a wood.Over these things I could not see;These were the things that bounded me;And I... more...

AN OLD SWEETHEART OF MINE As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone,And muses on the faces of the friends that he has known,So I turn the leaves of fancy till, in shadowy design,I find the smiling features of an old sweetheart of mine.   The lamplight seems to glimmer with a flicker of surprise,As I turn it low to rest me of the dazzle in my eyes,And light my pipe in silence, save a sigh that seems to yokeIts fate... more...

AN OLD SWEETHEART OF MINE As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone,And muses on the faces of the friends that he has known,So I turn the leaves of fancy till, in shadowy design,I find the smiling features of an old sweetheart of mine. The lamplight seems to glimmer with a flicker of surprise,As I turn it low to rest me of the dazzle in my eyes,And light my pipe in silence, save a sigh that seems to yokeIts fate with my tobacco and... more...

BACK FROM TOWN Old friends allus is the best,Halest-like and heartiest:Knowed us first, and don't allowWe're so blame much better now!They was standin' at the barsWhen we grabbed "the kivvered kyars"And lit out fer town, to makeMoney—and that old mistake! We thought then the world we wentInto beat "The Settlement,"And the friends 'at we'd make thereWould beat any anywhere!—And they do—fer that's their biz:They beat all the... more...


AS CREATED There's a space for good to bloom inEvery heart of man or woman,—And however wild or human,Or however brimmed with gall,Never heart may beat without it;And the darkest heart to doubt itHas something good about itAfter all.   WHERE-AWAY O the Lands of Where-Away!Tell us—tell us—where are they?Through the darkness and the dawnWe have journeyed on and on—From the cradle to the cross—From... more...

INTRODUCTION If we define poetry as the heart of man expressed in beautiful language, we shall not say that we have no national poetry. True, America has produced no Shakespeare and no Milton, but we have an inheritance in all English literature; and many poets in America have followed in the footsteps of their literary British forefathers. Puritan life was severe. It was warfare, and manual labor of a most exhausting type, and loneliness, and... more...

“As the Spirits of Darkness be stronger in the dark, so Good Spirits which be Angels of Light are augmented not only by the Divine light of the Sun, but also by our common VVood Fire: and as the Celestial Fire drives away dark spirits, so also this our Fire of VVood doth the same.” Cor. Agrippa, Occult Philosophy, Book I. chap. v. “Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow; and, driving o’er the... more...

PREFACE In March, 1914, a volume appeared entitled "Des Imagistes." It was a collection of the work of various young poets, presented together as a school. This school has been widely discussed by those interested in new movements in the arts, and has already become a household word. Differences of taste and judgment, however, have arisen among the contributors to that book; growing tendencies are forcing them along different paths. Those of us... more...

GEORGE D. PRENTICE. 'Tis midnight's holy hour, and silence nowIs brooding, like a gentle spirit o'erThe still and pulseless world. Hark! on the windsThe bell's deep tones are swelling; 'tis the knellOf the departed year. No funeral trainIs sweeping past; yet, on the stream and wood,With melancholy light, the moonbeams restLike a pale, spotless shroud; the air is stirred,As by a mourner's sigh; and, on yon cloud,That floats so still and... more...