There is a room upstairs in the old house at Fruitlands in Harvard, Massachusetts, where the visitors pause and look about them with a softening glance and often with visible emotion, as though they felt a sudden nearness to something infinitely intimate and personal. They have come to see the place where Bronson Alcott and the group of transcendentalists cut themselves off from the world in the spring of 1843 and tried to found a New Eden where... more...

THE sun withdrew his last pale ray, And clos’d the short and chearless day; Loud blew the wind, and rain and sleet Against the cottage casement beat. The busy housewife trimm’d her fire, And drew the oaken settle nigher, [p6]And welcom’d home her own good man To his clean hearth, his pipe, and can; For Homespun and his bustling wife Were honest folks in humble life, Who liv’d contented with their lot, And... more...

THE ROWERS 1902 (When Germany proposed that England should help her in a naval demonstration to collect debts from Venezuela.) The banked oars fell an hundred strong,And backed and threshed and ground,But bitter was the rowers' songAs they brought the war-boat round. They had no heart for the rally and roarThat makes the whale-bath smoke—When the great blades cleave and hold and leaveAs one on the racing stroke. They... more...

THE STUDY OF POETRY. BY FRANCIS HOVEY STODDARD. Clever men of action, according to Bacon, despise studies, ignorant men too much admire them, wise men make use of them. "Yet," he says, "they teach not their own use, but that there is a wisdom without them and above them won by observation." These are the words of a man who had been taught by years of studiousness the emptiness of mere study. It does not teach its own usefulness, and gives its... more...

RELIGION AND POETRY BY WASHINGTON GLADDEN. The time is not long past when the copulative in that title might have suggested to some minds an antithesis,—as acid and alkali, or heat and cold. That religion could have affiliation with anything so worldly as poetry would have seemed to some pious people a questionable proposition. There were the Psalms, in the Old Testament, to be sure; and the minister had been heard to allude to them as... more...

AN INTERPRETER OF LIFE. BY LYMAN ABBOTT. Poetry, music, and painting are three correlated arts, connected not merely by an accidental classification, but by their intrinsic nature. For they all possess the same essential function, namely, to interpret the uninterpretable, to reveal the undiscoverable, to express the inexpressible. They all attempt, in different forms and through different languages, to translate the invisible and eternal into... more...

AFTER ALL, WHAT IS POETRY? BY JOHN RAYMOND HOWARD. Considering the immense volume of poetical writing produced, and lost or accumulated, by all nations through the ages, it is of curious interest that no generally accepted definition of the word "Poetry" has ever been made. Of course, all versifiers aim at "poetry"; yet, what is poetry? Many definitions have been attempted. Some of these would exclude work by poets whom the world agrees to... more...

BED IN SUMMER In winter I get up at night And dress by yellow candle-light. In summer, quite the other way,— I have to go to bed by day. I have to go to bed and see The birds still hopping on the tree, Or hear the grown-up people’s feet Still going past me in the street. And does it not seem hard to you, When all the sky is clear and blue, And I should like so much to play, To have to go to bed by day?  ... more...

The source code for this HTML page contains only Latin-1 characters, but it directs the browser to display some special characters. The original work contained a few phrases or lines of Greek text. These are represented here as Greek letters, for example Οá¿–μοι. If the mouse is held still over such phrases, a transliteration in Beta-code pops up. Aside from Greek letters, the only special characters displayed are a... more...

THE TEMPEST (By Mary Lamb) There was a certain island in the sea, the only inhabitants of which were an old man, whose name was Prospero, and his daughter Miranda, a very beautiful young lady. She came to this island so young, that she had no memory of having seen any other human face than her father's. They lived in a cave or cell, made out of a rock: it was divided into several apartments, one of which Prospero called his study; there he... more...