We thank Thee, Lord, for one day To look Heaven in the face! The Poor have only Sunday; The sweeter is the grace. 'Tis then they make the music

TRUE Poets conquer Glory—do not… It; do not beg their way to Fame; Nor at her skirts in private bend… Nor sow the public broadcast with… They are the great High Priests o…

The flower you placed within my bu… Has faded; but there lives within… Another rose, unfolding hour by ho… Your beauty’s self in its immortal… So living-warm this dainty blossom…

No green age, beautiful to see, Hath Poor Old Gran! No ripe life mellowed goldenly Hath Poor Old Gran! One by one we have left her fold,

“So many are your foes, their arro… The very Sun with an eclipsing cl… “We’ll fight them in the dark then… Illumine with the lightning of the…

You perfect, pure, original, Writ in a tongue unknown to all; Translated, in some other sphere, You may be read; but will not here…

You are the Merry men, dwarfs of… Who can get your hand through the… And make your bells jingle outside… Prove there’s life beyond, and on… 'Tis trying to find that we are mo…

A FEW more Meetings on the Deep… And partings on the shore; And then in Heaven at last we kee… Our tryst for evermore. A little further we must bear

HAS Man a spirit that’s more tha… A spirit that walks in sleep or in… Shakes off at will its dust of the… And, waking by night, goes wanderi… To work its wish with a noiseless…

You have your Angel in the House!… On this, her likeness, mirrored in… If but to learn how shadowy the I… In presence of the living, loving…

I sometimes think that Shakespear… To me that very self so long conce… But if his soul my soul has lighte… I sometimes think it was to gaze o… To find, with loving wonder in his…

Dear things! we would not have you… Your Ignorance is so charming! We… That greater knowledge might not l… Sure aid to blind obedience and de…

Upon us falls the shadow of night, And darkened is our day! My Love will greet the morning li… Four hundred miles away. God love her! torn so swift and fa…

WHEN the merry spring-tide Floods all the land; Nature hath a Mother’s heart, Gives with open hand; Flowers running up the lane

Who would not wish the Dead were… If we can dry the mourners’ tear? Who would not pray the Dead may s… When starving Orphans wake to wee…