The harp of the minstrel has never a tone As sad as the song in his bosom to-night, For the magical touch of his fingers alone Can not waken the echoes that breathe it aright;...
Hereafter! O we need not waste Our smiles or tears, whatever befall: No happiness but holds a taste Of something sweeter, after all; - No depth of agony but feels Some fragment of abiding trust, -...
The Hired Man's supper, which he sat before, In near reach of the wood-box, the stove-door And one leaf of the kitchen-table, was Somewhat belated, and in lifted pause His dextrous knife was balancing a bit...
We must get home - for we have been away So long it seems forever and a day! And O so very homesick we have grown, The laughter of the world is like a moan In our tired hearing, and its songs as vain, -...
Owned a pair o' skates onc't. - Traded Fer 'em, - stropped 'em on and waded Up and down the crick, a-waitin' Tel she'd freeze up fit fer skatin'. Mildest winter I remember -...
The Hoosier Folk-Child - all unsung - Unlettered all of mind and tongue; Unmastered, unmolested - made Most wholly frank and unafraid: Untaught of any school - unvexed...
No song is mine of Arab steed - My courser is of nobler blood, And cleaner limb and fleeter speed, And greater strength and hardihood Than ever cantered wild and free Across the plains of Araby. ...
"Hey, Bud! O Bud!" rang out a gleeful call, - "The Loehrs is come to your house!" And a small But very much elated little chap, In snowy linen-suit and tasseled cap,...
This is "The old Home by the Mill" - far we still call it so, Although the old mill, roof and sill, is all gone long ago. The old home, though, and old folks, and the old spring, and a few...
Such was the Child-World of the long-ago - The little world these children used to know: - Johnty, the oldest, and the best, perhaps, Of the five happy little Hoosier chaps...
"Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! whare the crick so still and deep Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep, And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest below...
O touch me with your hands - For pity's sake! My brow throbs ever on with such an ache As only your cool touch may take away; And so, I pray You, touch me with your hands! ...
The touches of her hands are like the fall Of velvet snowflakes; like the touch of down The peach just brushes 'gainst the garden wall; The flossy fondlings of the thistle-wisp...
We must get home! How could we stray like this? - So far from home, we know not where it is, - Only in some fair, apple-blossomy place Of children's faces - and the mother's face -...
When June is here - what art have we to sing The whiteness of the lilies midst the green Of noon-tranced lawns? Or flash of roses seen Like redbirds' wings? Or earliest ripening...