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

SIT down, sad soul, and count The moments flying: Come,—tell the sweet amount That ’s lost by sighing! How many smiles?—a score?

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!

A THOUSAND miles from land are… Tossing about on the roaring sea; From billow to bounding billow cas… Like fleecy snow on the stormy bla… The sails are scatter’d abroad, li…

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,

When I was twenty inches long, I could not hear the thrush’s song… The radiance of the morning skies Was most displeasing to my eyes. For loving looks, caressing words,

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!

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?

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

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

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

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?

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…

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

TOUCH us gently, Time! Let us glide adown thy stream Gently,—as we sometimes glide Through a quiet dream. Humble voyagers are We,