#AmericanWriters
Oft I remember those I have known In other days, to whom my heart wa… As by a magnet, and who are not de… But absent, and their memories ove… With other thoughts and troubles o…
Lo! in the paintedoriel of the We… Whose panes the sunken sun incarna… Like a fair lady at her casement,… The evening star, the star of love… And then anon she doth herself div…
Under Mount Etna he lies, It is slumber, it is not death; For he struggles at times to arise… And above him the lurid skies Are hot with his fiery breath.
Rabbi Ben Levi, on the Sabbath,… A volume of the Law, in which it… ‘No man shall look upon my face an… And as he read, he prayed that Go… His faithful servant grace with mo…
In the heroic days when Ferdinand And Isabella ruled the Spanish la… And Torquemada, with his subtle b… Ruled them, as Grand Inquisitor o… In a great castle near Valladolid…
Northward over Drontheim, Flew the clamorous sea-gulls, Sang the lark and linnet From the meadows green; Weeping in her chamber,
O Lord! who seest, from yon starr… Centred in one the future and the… Fashioned in thine own image, see The world obscures in me what once… Eternal Sun! the warmth which tho…
To gallop off to town post-haste, So oft, the times I cannot tell; To do vile deed, nor feel disgrace… Friar Lubin will do it well. But a sober life to lead,
This is the Arsenal. From floor t… Like a huge organ, rise the burnis… But from their silent pipes no ant… Startles the villages with strange… Ah! what a sound will rise, how wi…
From the outskirts of the town Where of old the mile-stone stood, Now a stranger, looking down I behold the shadowy crown Of the dark and haunted wood.
Torrent of light and river of the… Along whose bed the glimmering sta… Like gold and silver sands in some… Where mountain streams have left t… The Spaniard sees in thee the pat…
Out of the bosom of the Air Out of the cloud-folds of her garm… Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow
Somewhat back from the village str… Stands the old—fashioned country—s… Across its antique portico Tall poplar—trees their shadows th… And from its station in the hall
Oh that a Song would sing itself… Out of the heart of Nature, or th… Of man, the child of Nature, not… Fresh as the morning, salt as the… With just enough of bitterness to…
Four limpid lakes,—four Naiades Or sylvan deities are these, In flowing robes of azure dressed; Four lovely handmaids, that uphold Their shining mirrors, rimmed with…