#AmericanWriters #Epigram
Whene’er a noble deed is wrought, Whene’er is spoken a noble thought… Our hearts, in glad surprise, To higher levels rise. The tidal wave of deeper souls
My soul its secret hath, my life t… A love eternal in a moment’s space… Hopeless the evil is, I have not… And she who was the cause nor knew… Alas! I shall have passed close b…
Southward with fleet of ice Sailed the corsair Death; Wild and gast blew the blast, And the east—wind was his breath. His lordly ships of ice
'Twas Pentecost, the Feast of Gl… When woods and fields put off all… Thus began the King and spake: So from the halls Of ancient Hofburgh’s walls,
Thus ran the Student’s pleasant r… Of Eginhard and love and youth; Some doubted its historic truth, But while they doubted, ne’erthele… Saw in it gleams of truthfulness,
The hour was late; the fire burned… The Landlord’s eyes were closed i… And near the story’s end a deep, Sonorous sound at times was heard, As when the distant bagpipes blow.
Northward over Drontheim, Flew the clamorous sea-gulls, Sang the lark and linnet From the meadows green; Weeping in her chamber,
Round Autumn’s mouldering urn Loud mourns the chill and cheerles… When nightfall shades the quiet va… And stars in beauty burn. 'Tis the year’s eventide.
Mounted on Kyrat strong and fleet… His chestnut steed with four white… Roushan Beg, called Kurroglou, Son of the road and bandit chief, Seeking refuge and relief,
How they so softly rest, All they the holy ones, Unto whose dwelling-place Now doth my soul draw near! How they so softly rest,
On the green little isle of Inchk… Who is it that walks by the shore, So gay with his Highland blue bon… So brave with his targe and claymo… His form is the form of a giant,
Often I think of the beautiful to… That is seated by the sea; Often in thought go up and down The pleasant streets of that dear… And my youth comes back to me.
Can it be the sun descending O’er the level plain of water? Or the Red Swan floating, flying, Wounded by the magic arrow, Staining all the waves with crimso…
The cabin windows have grown blank As eyeballs of the dead; No more the glancing sunbeams burn On the gilt letters of the stern, But on the figure-head;
O gift of God! O perfect day: Whereon shall no man work, but pla… Whereon it is enough for me, Not to be doing, but to be! Through every fibre of my brain,