The reverent Mussulman bends low to greet You, Tschatir Dagh, Crimea's bright-masted ship! World-altar,--minaret--the place where dip Down stairs from golden Heaven for the feet!...
Below me half a world I see outspread; Above, blue heaven; around, peaks of snow; And yet the happy pulse of life is slow, I dream of distant places, pleasures dead. The woods of Lithuania I would tread...
Another morning's banners are unfurled - Another day looks smiling on the world. It holds new laurels for thy soul to win; Mar not its grace by slothfulness or sin, Nor sad, away, Send it to yesterday.
Tugg Martin's tough. - No doubt o' that! And down there at The town he come from word's bin sent Advisin' this-here Settle-ment To kindo' humor Tugg, and not To git him hot -...
At five this morn, when Phoebus raised his head From Thetis' lap, I raised myself from bed, And mounting steed, I trotted to the waters The rendesvous of fools, buffoons, and praters,...
My miserable countrymen, whose wont is once a-year To lounge in watering-places, disagreeable and dear; Who on pigmy Cambrian mountains, and in Scotch or Irish bogs...
The turkeys wade the close to catch the bees In the old border full of maple trees And often lay away and breed and come And bring a brood of chelping chickens home. The turkey gobbles loud and drops his rag...
Sitting in the spendthrift dark lilting pennies away, deciphering fate ... . The bed, a warm reach past the pillow like personal mortality in the incest breath of life. ...
Turn, O Libertad, for the war is over, (From it and all henceforth expanding, doubting no more, resolute, sweeping the world,) Turn from lands retrospective, recording proofs of the past;...
A baby went to heaven while it slept, And, waking, missed its mother's arms, and wept. Those angel tear-drops, falling earthward through God's azure skies, into the turquoise grew.
'Twas one of those dreams, that by music are brought, Like a bright summer haze, o'er the poet's warm thought-- When, lost in the future, his soul wanders on, And all of this life, but its sweetness, is gone....
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; ...
Now, now the mirth comes With the cake full of plums, Where bean's the king of the sport here; Beside we must know, The pea also Must revel, as queen, in the court here.