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Showing: 1-10 results of 897

PREFACE. The First Volume of these Poems has already been submitted to general perusal. It was published, as an experiment which, I hoped, might be of some use to ascertain, how far, by fitting to metrical arrangement a selection of the real language of men in a state of vivid sensation, that sort of pleasure and that quantity of pleasure may be imparted, which a Poet may rationally endeavour to impart. I had formed no very inaccurate estimate... more...

When Day Is Done When day is done and the night slips down,And I've turned my back on the busy town,And come once more to the welcome gateWhere the roses nod and the children wait,I tell myself as I see them smileThat life is good and its tasks worth while. When day is done and I've come once moreTo my quiet street and the friendly door,Where the Mother reigns and the children playAnd the kettle sings in the old-time way,I throw my coat on a... more...

Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.Because your lover threw wild hands toward the skyAnd the affrighted steed ran on alone,Do not weep.War is kind.        Hoarse, booming drums of the           regiment,       Little souls who thirst for fight,       These men were born to drill and... 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...

PREFACE If—and the thing is wildly possible—the charge of writing nonsense were ever brought against the author of this brief but instructive poem, it would be based, I feel convinced, on the line (in p.4) "Then the bowsprit got mixed with the rudder sometimes." In view of this painful possibility, I will not (as I might) appeal indignantly to my other writings as a proof that I am incapable of such a deed: I will not (as I might)... more...


INTRODUCTION It is at my persuasion that these poems are now published. The earliest of them were read to me in London in 1896, when the writer was seventeen; the later ones were sent to me from India in 1904, when she was twenty-five; and they belong, I think, almost wholly to those two periods. As they seemed to me to have an individual beauty of their own, I thought they ought to be published. The writer hesitated. "Your letter made me very... more...

REVERENCE TO GANESHA! "The sky is clouded; and the wood resemblesThe sky, thick-arched with black Tamâla boughs;O Radha, Radha! take this Soul, that tremblesIn life's deep midnight, to Thy golden house."So Nanda spoke,—and, led by Radha's spirit,The feet of Krishna found the road aright;Wherefore, in bliss which all high hearts inherit,Together taste they Love's divine delight. He who wrote these things for thee,Of the Son of... more...

The shades of night were falling fast,As through an Eastern village passedA youth who bore, through dust and heat,A stencil-plate, that read complete—“SAPOLIO.”   CLEAN PAINT, OIL CLOTHS, FLOORS,WOOD WORK, TABLES & SHELVESwith Sapolio.   His brow was sad, but underneath,White with “Odonto” shone his teeth,And through them hissed the words, “Well, blowMe tight if here is ’ary... more...

Before the Altar Before the Altar, bowed, he standsWith empty hands;Upon it perfumed offerings burnWreathing with smoke the sacrificial urn.Not one of all these has he given,No flame of his has leapt to HeavenFiresouled, vermilion-hearted,Forked, and darted,Consuming what a few spare penceHave cheaply bought, to fling from henceIn idly-asked petition.His sole conditionLove and poverty.And while the moonSwings slow across the sky,Athwart a waving... more...

INVOCATION. Thou with the dark blue eye upturned to heaven,And cheek now pale, now warm with radiant glow,          Daughter of God,—most dear,—          Come with thy quivering tear,And tresses wild, and robes of loosened flow,—To thy lone votaress let one look be given! Come Poesy! nor like some just-formed maid,With heart as... more...