RISE! Sleep no more! ’T is a no… The dews hang thick on the fringed… And the frost shrinks back, like a… Under the steaming, steaming groun… Behold, where the billowy clouds f…

The brand is on thy brow, A dark and guilty spot; ’Tis ne’er to be erased! ’Tis ne’er to be forgot! The brand is on thy brow!

HOW many summers, love, Have I been thine? How many days, thou dove, Hast thou been mine? Time, like the winged wind

I am a Witch, and a kind old Witc… There’s many a one knows that— Alone I live in my little dark ho… With Pillycock, my cat. A girl came running through the ni…

SING, I pray, a little song, Mother dear! Neither sad nor very long: It is for a little maid, Golden-tressed Adelaide!

PEACE! what do tears avail? She lies all dumb and pale, And from her eye The spirit of lovely life is fadin… And she must die!

I wakened on my hot, hard bed; Upon the pillow lay my head; Beneath the pillow I could hear My little watch was ticking clear. I thought the throbbing of it went

King Death was a rare old fellow! He sate where no sun could shine; And he lifted his hand so yellow, And poured out his coal-black wine… Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!

WE are born; we laugh; we weep; We love; we droop; we die! Ah! wherefore do we laugh or weep? Why do we live, or die? Who knows that secret deep?

Inesilla! I am here Thy own cavalier Is now beneath thy lattice playing… Why art thou delaying? He hath riden many a mile

GAMARRA is a dainty steed, Strong, black, and of a noble bree… Full of fire, and full of bone, With all his line of fathers known… Fine his nose, his nostrils thin,

THE SEA! the sea! the open sea! The blue, the fresh, the ever free… Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth’s wide region… It plays with the clouds; it mocks…

TELL me, what is a poet’s though… Is it on the sudden born? Is it from the starlight caught? Is it by the tempest taught, Or by whispering morn?

Here’s a health to thee, Mary, Here’s a health to thee; The drinkers are gone, And I am alone, To think of home and thee, Mary.

The poplars in the fields of Fran… Are golden ladies come to dance; But yet to see them there is none But I and the September sun. The girl who in their shadow sits