While the yellow constellations shine with pale and tender glory, In the lilac-scented stillness, let us listen to Earth's story. All the flow'rs like moths a-flutter glimmer rich with dusky hues,...
Whoever you are, holding me now in hand, Without one thing, all will be useless, I give you fair warning, before you attempt me further, I am not what you supposed, but far different. ...
In the parlour of the shanty where the lives have all gone wrong, When a singer or reciter gives a story or a song, Where the poet's heart is speaking to their hearts in every line,...
In years to come, will you forget, Dear girl, how often we have met? And I have gazed into your eyes And there beheld no sad regret To cloud the gladness of their skies,...
We have no wine here to regale us So let our tears serve as wine! Let’s pour. This drink we have in surplus, Our hearts it’ll burn right through with brine. Perhaps its bitterness will succour...
Lips that are met in love's Devotion sweet, While parting lovers passionately greet, And earth through heaven's arc more swiftly moves - Oh, will they be less dear Within a year? ...
Would you know the kind of maid Sets my heart a flame-a? Eyes must be downcast and staid, Cheeks must flush for shame-a! She may neither dance nor sing, But, demure in everything,...
Sweet friend, the world, like some fair infant blessed, Radiant with sportive grace, around thee plays; Yet 'tis not as depicted in thy breast Not as within thy soul's fair glass, its rays...
Calm is all nature as a resting wheel. The kine are couched upon the dewy grass; The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass, Is cropping audibly his later meal: Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal...
I have a little Grandchild dear, Who sends to me on each new year A valuable present: Not costly gift from store-house bought, But one that her own hands have wrought, Therefore to me more pleasant....
Yad Mordechai. Those who fell here still look out the windows like sick children who are not allowed outside to play. And on the hillside, the battle is reenacted...
This poem is intended as a description of a sort of Blashfield mural painting on the sky. To be sung to the tune of Yankee Doodle, yet in a slower, more orotund fashion. It is presumably an exercise for an entertainment o...
Survivor sole, and hardly such, of all That once lived here, thy brethren, at my birth (Since which I number threescore winters past), A shatter'd veteran, hollow-trunk'd perhaps,...