Dreamer, say, will you dream for m… A wild sweet dream of a foreign la… Whose border sips of a foaming sea With lips of coral and silver sand… Where warm winds loll on the shady…

As one in sorrow looks upon The dead face of a loyal friend, By the dim light of New Year’s da… I saw the Old Year end. Upon the pallid features lay

The harp has fallen from the maste… Mute is the music, voiceless are t… Save such faint discord as the wil… In sad aeolian murmurs through the… The tide of melody, whose billows…

AFTER READING HIS AU… POOR victim of that vulture curs… That hovers o’er the universe, With ready talons quick to strike In every human heart alike,

There was a cherry-tree. Its bloo… Cool even now the fevered sight th… No more its airy visions of pure j… As when you were a boy. There was a cherry-tree. The Blue…

The midnight is not more bewilderi… To her drowsed eyes, than to her e… Of dim, sweet singing voices, inte… With purl of flute and subtle twan… Strained through the lattice, wher…

'I’m home again, my dear old Room… I’m home again, and happy, too, As, peering through the brightenin… I find myself alone with you: Though brief my stay, nor far away…

Season of snows, and season of flo… Seasons of loss and gain!— Since grief and joy must alike be… Why do we still complain? Ever our failing, from sun to sun,

Fold the little waxen hands Lightly. Let your warmest tears Speak regrets, but never fears,— Heaven understands! Let the sad heart, o’er the tomb,

Old friend of mine, whose chiming… Has been the burthen of a rhyme Within my heart since first I cam… To know thee in thy mellow prime; With warm emotions in my breast

Sing! gangling lad, along the brin… Of wild brook-ways of shoal and de… Where killdees dip, and cattle dri… And glinting little minnows leap! Sing! slimpsy lass who trips above

When Dicky was sick In the night, and the clock, As he listened, said ‘Tick– Atty—tick-atty—tock!’ He said that _it_ said,

A dark, tempestuous night; the sta… With shrouds of fog; an inky, jet-… The firmament; and where the moon… An hour agone seems like the darke… The weird wind—furious at its demo…

If I knew what poets know, Would I write a rhyme Of the buds that never blow In the summer-time? Would I sing of golden seeds

Had a hare-lip—Joney had: Spiled his looks, and Joney knowe… Fellers tried to bore him, bad— But ef ever he got mad, He kep’ still and never showed it.