On Martinmas eve the dogs did bark, And I opened the window to see, When every maiden went by with her spark, But ne'er a one came to me. And O dear what will become of me? And O dear what shall I do,...
Good and great God! how should I fear To come to Thee if Christ not there! Could I but think He would not be Present to plead my cause for me, To hell I'd rather run than I...
No fault in women, to refuse The offer which they most would chuse. No fault: in women, to confess How tedious they are in their dress; No fault in women, to lay on The tincture of vermilion;...
No, not more welcome the fairy numbers Of music fall on the sleeper's ear, When half-awaking from fearful slumbers, He thinks the full choir of heaven is near,-- Than came that voice, when, all forsaken....
From the vast and desert deeps, Where the lonely Kraken sleeps, Where fixed the icy mountains high Glimmer to the twilight sky; Where, six lingering months to last,...
Hear us, O age-laden singer! Streams of your tones are returning, Touching your heart! Spirit of youth is their bringer, Under your window with yearning...
We are not always glad when we smile: Though we wear a fair face and are gay, And the world we deceive May not ever believe We could laugh in a happier way. - Yet, down in the deeps of the soul,...
Miss Flora McFlimsey, of Madison Square, Has made three separate journeys to Paris; And her father assures me, each time she was there, That she and her friend Mrs. Harris...
She was but a child, a child, And I a man grown; Sweet she was, and fresh, and wild, And, I thought, my own. What could I do? The long grass groweth, The long wave floweth with a murmur on:...
Not Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell, Of civil conflict, nor the wrecks of change, Nor Duty struggling with afflictions strange Not these 'alone' inspire the tuneful shell;...
Grace, triumphant in the throne, Scorns a rival, reigns alone; Come and bow beneath her sway, Cast your idol works away. Works of man, when made his plea, Never shall accepted be;...
Not they who soar, but they who plod Their rugged way, unhelped, to God Are heroes; they who higher fare, And, flying, fan the upper air, Miss all the toil that hugs the sod....
Shall I not give this world my heart, and well? If for naught else, for many a miracle Of the impassioned spring, the rose, the snow? Nay, by the spring that still must come and go...