I’ b’en a-kindo musin’, as the fel… About o’ the conclusion that they… When you come to cipher on it, tha… When we swore our first 'dog-gone-… You git my idy, do you?—_Little_…

I saw a man—and envied him beside— Because of this world’s goods he h… But even as I envied him, he died… And left me envious of him no more… I saw another man—and envied still…

I so loved once, when Death came…    Away my face, And all my sweetheart’s tresses sh…    To make my hiding-place. The dread shade passed me thus unh…

I find an old deserted nest, Half-hidden in the underbrush: A withered leaf, in phantom jest, Has nestled in it like a thrush With weary, palpitating breast.

There was a curious quiet for a sp… Directly following: and in the fac… Of one rapt listener pulsed the fl… Of the heat-lightning that pent pa… Long ere the crash of speech.—He…

'Write me a rhyme of the present t… And the poet took his pen And wrote such lines as the miser… Hide in the hearts of men. He grew enthused, as the poets use…

Awf’lest boy in this-here town Er anywheres is Elmer Brown! He’ll mock you—yes, an’ strangers,… An’ make a face an’ yell at you,— '_Here’s_ the way _you_ look!'

Would that the winds might only bl… As they blew in the golden long ag… Laden with odors of Orient isles Where ever and ever the sunshine s… And the bright sands blend with th…

Far in the night, and yet no rest… The wife’s sweet face in slumber p… alone! In vain he courted sleep;—one thou… arise,—

Uncle Sidney, when he wuz here, Maked me a squirtgun out o’ some Elder-bushes ‘at growed out near Where wuz the brickyard—’way out c… To where the toll-gate come!

Where do you go when you go to sle… Little Boy! Little Boy! where? ‘Way—’way in where’s Little Bo-P… And Little Boy Blue, and the Cow… A-wandering ‘way in there;—in ther…

Illileo, the moonlight seemed lost… The stars but strewed the azure as… The airs of night were quiet as th… And all your words were sweeter th… Illileo Legardi, in the garden th…

Time is so long when a man is dead… Some one sews; and the room is mad… Very clean; and the light is shed Soft through the window-shade. Yesterday I thought: ‘I know

Oh! the old swimmin’-hole! whare t… Looked like a baby-river that was… And the gurgle of the worter round… Sounded like the laugh of somethin… Before we could remember anything…

Thou Poet, who, like any lark, Dost whet thy beak and trill From misty morn till murky dark, Nor ever pipe thy fill: Hast thou not, in thy cheery note,