Writ in between the lines of his l… We trace the sacred service of a h… Answering the Divine command, in… Bearing on human weal: His love d… The loveless; and his gentle hands…

I grow so weary, someway, of all t… That love and loving have vouchsaf… Since now all dreamed-of sweets of… Am I possessed of: The caress tha… The lips that mix with mine with m…

At Noey’s house—when they arrived… How snug seemed everything, and ne… The little picket-fence, and littl… It’s little pulley, and its little… All glib as clock-work, as it clic…

Young Philiper Flash was a promis… His intentions were good—but oh, h… For a person to think How the veriest pink And bloom of perfection may turn o…

Oh, the Circus-Day parade! How t… And how the glossy horses tossed t… As the rattle and the rhyme of the… Filled all the hungry hearts of us… How the grand band-wagon shone wit…

Tell you what I like the best— ‘Long about knee-deep in June, ’Bout the time strawberries melts On the vine,—some afternoon Like to jes’ git out and rest,

In some strange place Of long-lost lands he finds her wa… Comes marveling upon it, unaware, Set moonwise in the midnight of he…

The maple strews the embers of its… O’er the laggard swallows nestled… And the moody cricket falters in h… And the lid of night is falling o’… The lid of night is falling o’er t…

Welladay! Here I lay You at rest—all worn away, O my pencil, to the tip Of our old companionship!

Barefooted boys scud up the street Or skurry under sheltering sheds; And schoolgirl faces, pale and swe… Gleam from the shawls about their… Doors bang; and mother-voices call

The ticking—ticking—ticking of the… That vexed me so last night—! ‘Fo… Such drowsy watch,’ I moaned, ‘he… But only nods above the world to m… Its restless occupant, then rudely…

Sir Launcelot rode overthwart and… path but as wild adventure led him… horse, and took off his saddle and… unlaced his helm, and ungirdled hi… his shield before the cross.—Age o…

MAY 30, 1878, Dying for victory, cheer on cheer Thundered on his eager ear. —CHARLES L. HOLSTEIN. Deep, tender, firm and true, the…

Where are they?—the friends of my… The clear, laughing eyes looking b… And the warm, chubby fingers my pa… As when we raced over Pink pastures of clover,

Here’s his ragged 'roundabout’; Turn the pockets inside out: See; his pen-knife, lost to use, Rusted shut with apple-juice; Here, with marbles, top and string…