In the little southern parlor of the house you may have seen With the gambrel-roof, and the gable looking westward to the green, At the side toward the sunset, with the window on its right,...
Devoutest of My Sunday friends, The patient Organ-blower bends; I see his figure sink and rise, (Forgive me, Heaven, my wandering eyes!) A moment lost, the next half seen,...
I must leave thee, lady sweet Months shall waste before we meet; Winds are fair and sails are spread, Anchors leave their ocean bed; Ere this shining day grow dark, Skies shall gird my shoreless bark....
Dearest, a look is but a ray Reflected in a certain way; A word, whatever tone it wear, Is but a trembling wave of air; A touch, obedience to a clause In nature's pure material laws. ...
In the hour of twilight shadows The Pilgrim sire looked out; He thought of the "bloudy Salvages" That lurked all round about, Of Wituwamet's pictured knife And Pecksuot's whooping shout;...
Lady, life's sweetest lesson wouldst thou learn, Come thou with me to Love's enchanted bower High overhead the trellised roses burn; Beneath thy feet behold the feathery fern, - A leaf without a flower....
These hallowed precincts, long to memory dear, Smile with fresh welcome as our feet draw near; With softer gales the opening leaves are fanned, With fairer hues the kindling flowers expand,...
Is man's the only throbbing heart that hides The silent spring that feeds its whispering tides? Speak from thy caverns, mystery-breeding Earth, Tell the half-hinted story of thy birth,...
I'm not a chicken; I have seen Full many a chill September, And though I was a youngster then, That gale I well remember; The day before, my kite-string snapped, And I, my kite pursuing,...
"How many have gone?" was the question of old Ere Time our bright ring of its jewels bereft; Alas! for too often the death-bell has tolled, And the question we ask is, "How many are left?" ...
This "sentiment" was read on the same occasion as the "Family Record," which immediately follows it. The latter poem is the dutiful tribute of a son to his father and his father's ancestors, residents of Woodstock from its firs...
"Bring me my broken harp," he said; "We both are wrecks, - but as ye will, - Though all its ringing tones have fled, Their echoes linger round it still; It had some golden strings, I know,...
Precisely. I see it. You all want to say That a tear is too sad and a laugh is too gay; You could stand a faint smile, you could manage a sigh, But you value your ribs, and you don't want to cry. ...
The sun stepped down from his golden throne. And lay in the silent sea, And the Lily had folded her satin leaves, For a sleepy thing was she; What is the Lily dreaming of? Why crisp the waters blue?...