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1 OR, from that Sea of Time, Spray, blown by the wind—a double winrow-drift of weeds and shells; (O little shells, so curious-convolute! so limpid-cold and voiceless!
These are two friends whose lives were undivided; So let their memory be, now they have glided Under the grave; let not their bones be parted, For their two hearts in life were single-hearted.
FROM Paumanock starting, I fly like a bird, Around and around to soar, to sing the idea of all; To the north betaking myself, to sing there arctic songs, To Kanada, till I absorb Kanada in myself—to Michigan then, To...
my lonely--lonely--lonely--Pillow! Where is my lover? where is my lover? Is it his bark which my dreary dreams discover? Far--far away! and alone along the billow? my lonely--lonely--lonely--Pillow! Why must my head ache where his gentle brow lay?
I cried at Pity -- not at Pain -- I heard a Woman say "Poor Child" -- and something in her voice Convicted me --...
Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm Nor question much That subtle wreath of hair which crowns my arm; The mystery, the sign, you must not touch, For 'tis my outward Soul, Viceroy to that which then to heaven...
"_I lay my branch of laurel down_." "_THOU_ lay thy branch of _laurel_ down!" Why, what thou'st stole is not enow; And, were it lawfully thine own, Does Rogers want it most, or thou?
Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy 'Will,' And 'Will' to boot, and 'Will' in over-plus; More than enough am I that vex'd thee still, To thy sweet will making addition thus. Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,...
Remind me not, remind me not, Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours, When all my soul was given to thee; Hours that may never be...
Ghosts of the dead! have I not heard your yelling Rise on the night-rolling breath of the blast, When o'er the dark aether the tempest is swelling, And on eddying whirlwind the thunder-peal passed?
How oft on Sundays, when I'd time to tramp, My rambles led me to a gipsy's camp, Where the real effigy of midnight hags, With tawny smoked flesh and tattered rags, Uncouth-brimmed hat, and weather-beaten cloak, Neath the wild shelter...
behold, interred together, The _souls_ of learning and of leather. Poor Joe is gone, but left his _all_: You'll find his relics in a _stall_. His works were neat, and often found Well stitched, and with _morocco_ bound.
I have no wit, no words, no tears; My heart within me like a stone Is numbed too much for hopes or fears.
Ha barbitos de chordais Er_ota mounon aechei. - Anacreon Away with your fictions of flimsy romance, Those tissues of falsehood which Folly has wove; Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance, Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love.
a heart-warm fond adieu; Dear brothers of the mystic tie! Ye favourèd, enlighten’d few, Companions of my social joy; Tho’ I to foreign lands must hie, Pursuing Fortune’s slidd’ry ba’; With melting heart, and brimful eye, I’ll mind you still, tho’ far awa.
Children, you are very little, And your bones are very brittle; If you would grow great and stately, You must try to walk sedately. You must still be bright and quiet, And content with simple diet; And remain, through all bewild'ring, Innocent and honest children.
I will not gainsay love, called love forsooth. I have heard love talked in my early youth, And since, not so long back but that the flowers Then gathered, smell still. Mussulmans and Giaours Throw kerchiefs at a smile, and...
WHEN Thurlow this damned nonsense sent, (I hope I am not violent) Nor men nor gods knew what he meant. And since not even our Rogers' praise To common sense his thoughts could raise-- Why _would_ they let him print his lays?
Musicians wrestle everywhere -- All day -- among the crowded air I hear the silver strife -- And -- walking -- long before the morn...
The silver trumpets rang across the Dome: The people knelt upon the ground with awe: And borne upon the necks of men I saw, Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome.
I cannot know what country owns thee now, With France's forest lilies on thy brow. When England knew thee thou wert passing fair; I never knew a foreign face so rare. The world of waters rolls and rushes bye, Nor...
We sow the glebe, we reap the corn, We build the house where we may rest, And then, at moments, suddenly, We look up to the great wide sky, Inquiring wherefore we were born... For earnest or for jest?
snatched away in beauty's bloom, On thee shall press no ponderous tomb; But on thy turf shall roses rear Their leaves, the earliest of the year; And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom: And oft by yon blue gushing...
Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn, When beauty lived and died as flowers do now, Before these bastard signs of fair were born, Or durst inhabit on a living brow; Before the golden tresses of the dead,...