#Americans
Until we meet again! That is the… Of the familiar words, that men re… At parting in the street. Ah yes, till then! but when death… Rends us asunder, with what ceasel…
Eyes so tristful, eyes so tristful… Heart so full of care and cumber, I was lapped in rest and slumber, Ye have made me wakeful, wistful! In this life of labor endless
There is a quiet spirit in these w… That dwells where’er the gentle so… Where, underneath the white-thorn,… The wild flowers bloom, or, kissin… The leaves above their sunny palms…
All houses wherein men have lived… Are haunted houses. Through the o… The harmless phantoms on their err… With feet that make no sound upon… We meet them at the doorway, on th…
‘E venni dal martirio a questa pac… These words the poet heard in Par… Uttered by one who, bravely dying… In the true faith was living in th… Where the celestial cross of sacri…
The old house by the lindens Stood silent in the shade, And on the gravelled pathway The light and shadow played. I saw the nursery windows
Thorberg Skafting, master-builder… In his ship-yard by the sea, Whistling, said, ‘It would bewild… Any man but Thorberg Skafting, Any man but me!’
How I started up in the night, in… Drawn on without rest or reprieval… The streets, with their watchmen,… As I wandered so light In the night, in the night,
In the market—place of Bruges sta… Thrice consumed and thrice rebuild… town. As the summer morn was breaking, o… And the world threw off the darkne…
‘Now that is after my own heart,’ The Poet cried; 'one understands Your swarthy hero Scanderbeg, Gauntlet on hand and boot on leg, And skilled in every warlike art,
(Canto XXIII.) Even as a bird, ‘mid the beloved l… Quiet upon the nest of her sweet b… Throughout the night, that hideth… Who, that she may behold their lon…
When the warm sun, that brings Seed—time and harvest, has returne… 'T is sweet to visit the still woo… The first flower of the plain. I love the season well,
Downward through the evening twili… In the days that are forgotten, In the unremembered ages, From the full moon fell Nokomis, Fell the beautiful Nokomis,
Witlaf, a king of the Saxons, Ere yet his last he breathed, To the merry monks of Croyland His drinking—horn bequeathed,— That, whenever they sat at their r…
By yon still river, where the wave Is winding slow at evening’s close… The beech, upon a nameless grave, Its sadly—moving shadow throws. O’er the fair woods the sun looks…