#Americans #Epigram
Shepherd! who with thine amorous s… Hast broken the slumber that encom… Who mad’st thy crook from the accu… On which thy powerful arms were st… Lead me to mercy’s ever-flowing fo…
Bell! thou soundest merrily, When the bridal party To the church doth hie! Bell! thou soundest solemnly. When, on Sabbath morning,
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
It was Sir Christopher Gardiner, Knight of the Holy Sepulchre, From Merry England over the sea, Who stepped upon this continent As if his august presence lent
These are the tales those merry gu… Told to each other, well or ill; Like summer birds that lift their… Above the borders of their nests And twitter, and again are still.
THE SPIRE OF STRASBU… Night and storm. LUCIFER, with… Air, trying to tear down the Cros… _Lucifer._ HASTEN! hasten! O ye spirits!
Love, love, what wilt thou with th… Naught see I fixed or sure in the… I do not know thee,—nor what deeds… Love, love, what wilt thou with th… Naught see I fixed or sure in the…
This is the place. Stand still, m… Let me review the scene, And summon from the shadowy Past The forms that once have been. The Past and Present here unite
For thee was a house built Ere thou wast born, For thee was a mould meant Ere thou of mother camest. But it is not made ready,
All are architects of Fate, Working in these walls of Time; Some with massive deeds and great, Some with ornaments of rhyme. Nothing useless is, or low;
NEAR to the bank of the river, o… Garlands of Spanish moss and of m… Such as the Druids cut down with… Stood, secluded and still, the hou… Girdled it round about with a belt…
What is this I read in history, Full of marvel, full of mystery, Difficult to understand? Is it fiction, is it truth? Children in the flower of youth,
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!’
Yes, the Year is growing old, And his eye is pale and bleared! Death, with frosty hand and cold, Plucks the old man by the beard, Sorely, sorely!
I heard a voice, that cried, ‘Balder the Beautiful Is dead, is dead!’ And through the misty air Passed like the mournful cry
