'Twas a place of fifty acres, in a lonely neighborhood, And near a grove of somber pines the shackly farm-house stood; And all the folks, for miles around, did solemnly declare...
"Is she still beautiful?" I asked of one Who of the unforgotten faces told That for long years I had not looked upon - "Beautiful still - but she is growing old"; And for a space I sorrowed, thinking on...
Time has made conquest of so many things That once were mine. Swift-footed, eager youth That ran to meet the years; bold brigand health, That broke all laws of reason unafraid,...
Time looked me in the eyes while passing by The milestone of the year. That piercing gaze Was both an accusation and reproach. No speech was needed. In a sorrowing look...
Oh, boastful, wicked land, that once was beautiful and great, How bitter and how black must be your self-invited fate, While Time goes down the centuries and sings his hymn of hate! ...
I've a Friend, over the sea; I like him, but he loves me; It all grew out of the books I write; They find such favour in his sight That he slaughters you with savage looks...
Hallo, Metropolitan - Ubiquitous windows staring all ways, Red eye notching the darkness. No use to ogle that slip of a moon. This midnight the moon, Playing virgin after all her encounters,...
To the Rev. William Cawthorne Unwin, Rector of Stock in Essex, the tutor of his two sons, the following poem, recommending private tuition in preference to an education at school, is inscribed, by his affectionate friend,...
'Tis He whose yester-evening's high disdain Beat back the roaring storm, but how subdued His day-break note, a sad vicissitude! Does the hour's drowsy weight his glee restrain?...
The fountains serenade the flowers, Upon their silver lute-- And, nestled in their leafy bowers, The forest-birds are mute: The bright and glittering hosts above Unbar their golden gates,...
'Tis said, that some have died for love: And here and there a churchyard grave is found In the cold north's unhallowed ground, Because the wretched man himself had slain, His love was such a grievous pain....
'T is Spring, my love, 'tis Spring, And the birds begin to sing: If 'twas Winter, left alone with you, Your bonny form and face Would make a Summer place, And be the finest flower that ever grew. ...
'Tis sweet to think, that, where'er we rove, We are sure to find something blissful and dear. And that, when we're far from the lips we love, We've but to make love to the lips, we are near....
'Tis the last rose of summer Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone; No flower of her kindred, No rose-bud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes,...
An iron hand has stilled the throats That throbbed with loud and rhythmic glee And dammed the flood of silver notes That drenched the world in melody....