Sweet the memory is to me Of a land beyond the sea, Where the waves and mountains meet, Where ami
Thus then, much care-worn, The son of Healfden Sorrowed evermore, Nor might the prudent hero
St. Botolph's Town! Hither across the plains And fens of Lincolnshire, in garb austere, There came
Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers,
Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain, With banners, by great gales incessant fanned, Brighter
The day is ending, The night is descending; The marsh is frozen, The river dead. Through cloud
Annie of Tharaw, my true love of old, She is my life, and my goods, and my gold. Annie of Thar
There is no flock, however watched and tended, But one dead lamb is there! There is no fireside, h
Witlaf, a king of the Saxons, Ere yet his last he breathed, To the merry monks of Croyland His dr
Sing, O Song of Hiawatha, Of the happy days that followed, In the land of the Ojibways, In the pl
I stand again on the familiar shore, And hear the waves of the distracted sea Piteously calling an
'A soldier of the Union mustered out,' Is the inscription on an unknown grave At Newport News, bes
It is autumn; not without But within me is the cold. Youth and spring are all about; It is I that
Blind Bartimeus at the gates Of Jericho in darkness waits; He hears the crowd;--he hears a breath
This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms; But front
I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the si
Black shadows fall From the lindens tall, That lift aloft their massive wall Against the southern
I heard the bells on Christmas day Their old familiar carols play, And wild and sweet the words r
I have read, in some old, marvellous tale, Some legend strange and vague, That a midnight host of
The sun is set; and in his latest beams Yon little cloud of ashen gray and gold, Slowly upon the a
Round Autumn's mouldering urn Loud mourns the chill and cheerless gale, When nightfall shades the
I am poor and old and blind; The sun burns me, and the wind Blows through the city gate And cover
On sunny slope and beechen swell, The shadowed light of evening fell; And, where the maple's leaf
By his evening fire the artist Pondered o'er his secret shame; Baffled, weary, and disheartened,
In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown; Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded
O gift of God! O perfect day: Whereon shall no man work, but play; Whereon it is enough for me, N
As the dim twilight shrouds The mountain's purple crest, And Summer's white and folded clouds Are
On the green little isle of Inchkenneth, Who is it that walks by the shore, So gay with his Highla
Simon Danz has come home again, From cruising about with his buccaneers; He has singed the beard o
I leave you, ye cold mountain chains, Dwelling of warriors stark and frore! You, may these eyes