Poor, withered face, that yet was once so fair, Grown ashen-old in the wild fires of lust - Thy star-like beauty, dimm'd with earthly dust, Yet breathing of a purer native air; -...
O many-toned rain! O myriad sweet voices of the rain! How welcome is its delicate overture At evening, when the moist and glowing west Seals all things with cool promise of night's rest. ...
O many-toned rain! O myriad sweet voices of the rain! How welcome is its delicate overture At evening, when the glowing-moistur'd west Seals all things with cool promise of night's rest! ...
Before the golden gate she stands, With drooping head, with idle hands Loose-clasped, and bent beneath the weight Of unseen woe. Too late, too late! Those carved and fretted, Starred, resetted...
Autumn is gone: through the blue woodlands bare Shatters the rainy wind. A myriad leaves, Like birds that fly the mournful Northern air. Flutter away from the old forest's eaves. ...
Autumn is gone: through the blue woodlands bare Shatters the windy rain. A thousand leaves, Like birds that fly the mournful Northern air, Flutter away from the old forest's eaves. ...
Helen, in her silent room, Weaves upon the upright loom; Weaves a mantle rich and dark, Purpled over, deep. But mark How she scatters o'er the wool Woven shapes, till it is full...
Helen, in her silent room, Weaves upon the upright loom, Weaves a mantle rich and dark, Purpled over-deep. But mark How she scatters o'er the wool Woven shapes, till it is full...
Valleys lay in sunny vapor, And a radiance mild was shed From each tree that like a taper At a feast stood. Then we said, "Our feast, too, shall soon be spread, Of good Thanksgiving turkey." ...
Standing here alone, Let me pause awhile, Drinking in the light Ere, with plunge of white limbs prone, I raise the sparkling flight Of foam-flakes volatile.
How sweetly sang the bobolink, When thou, my love, wast nigh! His liquid music from the brink Of some cloud-fountain seemed to sink, Far in the blue-domed sky.
How sweetly sang the bobolink, When thou, my Love, wast nigh! His liquid music from the brink Of some cloud-fountain seemed to sink, Built in the blue-domed sky.
Deep, smoldering colors of the land and sea Burn in these stones, that, by some mystery, Wrap fire in sleep and never are consumed. Scarlet of daybreak, sunset gleams half spent...
Do you remember, my sweet, absent son, How in the soft June days forever done You loved the heavens so warm and clear and high; And when I lifted you, soft came your cry, -...
At morn his bark like a bird Slips lightly oceanward - Sail feathering smooth o'er the bay And beak that drinks the wild spray. In his eyes beams cheerily A light like the sun's on the sea,...