I cannot tell the story of Dorothy Q. more simply in prose than I have told it in verse, but I can add something to it. Dorothy was the daughter of Judge Edmund Quincy, and the niece of Josiah Quincy, junior, the young patriot ...
I love and love not: Lord, it breaks my heart To love and not to love. Thou veiled within Thy glory, gone apart Into Thy shrine, which is above, Dost Thou not love me, Lord, or care For this mine ill? -...
Dost thou remember that place so lonely, A place for lovers and lovers only, Where first I told thee all my secret sighs? When, as the moonbeam that trembled o'er thee...
Do they know? At the turn to the straight Where the favourites fail, And every last atom of weight Is telling its tale; As some grim old stayer hard-pressed Runs true to his breed,...
Do they think of us, say in the far distant West On the Prairies of Peace, in the Valleys of Rest? On the long dusty march when the suntide is hot, O say, are their sons and their brothers forgot?...
Doth then the world go thus? doth all thus move? Is this the justice which on earth we find? Is this that firm decree which all doth bind? Are these your influences, Powers above?...
Ot's a leedle Christmas story Dot I told der leedle folks - Und I vant you stop dot laughin' Und grackin' funny jokes' - So-help me Peter-Moses! Ot's no time for monkeyshine',...
Fools may pine, and sots may swill, Cynics gibe, and prophets rail, Moralists may scourge and drill, Preachers prose, and fainthearts quail. Let them whine, or threat, or wail!...
The big teetotum twirls, And epochs wax and wane As chance subsides or swirls; But of the loss and gain The sum is always plain. Read on the mighty pall, The weed of funeral...
A wild Pink nestled in a garden bed, A rich Carnation flourished high above her, One day he chanced to see her pretty head And leaned and looked again, and grew to love her. ...
Double red daisies, they're my flowers, Which nobody else may grow. In a big quarrelsome house like ours They try it sometimes, but no, I root them up because they're my flowers,...
My soul lives in my body's house, And you have both the house and her, But sometimes she is less your own Than a wild, gay adventurer; A restless and an eager wraith, How can I tell what she will do,...
I do not know if all the fault be mine, Or why I may not think of thee and be At peace with mine own heart. Unceasingly Grim doubts beset me, bygone words of thine Take subtle meaning, and I cannot rest...
Tho' Sin too oft, when smitten by Thy rod, Rail at 'Blind Fate' with many a vain 'Alas'' From sin thro' sorrow into Thee we pass By that same path our true forefathers trod;...
Aye, snows are rife in December, And sheaves are in August yet, And you would have me remember, And I would rather forget; In the bloom of the May-day weather, In the blight of October chill,...
An angel saw me sitting by a brook, Pleased with the silence, and the melodies Of wind and water which did fall and rise: He gently stirred his plumes and from them shook...
Doubt no more that Oberon-- Never doubt that Pan Lived, and played a reed, and ran After nymphs in a dark forest, In the merry, credulous days,-- Lived, and led a fairy band...
When she sleeps, her soul, I know, Goes a wanderer on the air, Wings where I may never go, Leaves her lying, still and fair, Waiting, empty, laid aside, Like a dress upon a chair. . . ....