How many of my selves are dead? The ghosts of many haunt me: Lo, The baby in the tiny bed With rockers on, is blanketed And sleeping in the long ago;

Dexery-tethery! down in the dike, Under the ooze and the slime, Nestles the wraith of a reticent… Blubbering bubbles of rhyme: Though the reeds touch him and tic…

DAWN As though a gipsy maiden with dim… Sat crooning by the roadside of th… So, Autumn, in thy strangeness, t… To read dark fortunes for us from…

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,

The touches of her hands are like… Of velvet snowflakes; like the tou… The peach just brushes 'gainst the… The flossy fondlings of the thistl… Caught in the crinkle of a leaf of…

The rain! the rain! the rain! It gushed from the skies and strea… Like awful tears; and the sick man… How pitiful it seemed! And he turned his face away,

To all the little children:—The h… The sober and the silent ones; the… The good ones—Yes, the good ones,… Little Orphant Annie’s come to ou… An’ wash the cups an’ saucers up,…

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…

I come upon it suddenly, alone— A little pathway winding in the we… That fringe the roadside; and with… I wander as it leads. Full wistfully along the slender w…

'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…

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!

Wasn’t it pleasant, O brother min… In those old days of the lost suns… Of youth—when the Saturday’s chor… And the 'Sunday’s wood’ in the ki… And we went visiting, ‘me and you,…

What is it in old fiddle-chunes 'a… And ripples up my backbone tel I’… Kindo’ like that sweet-sick feelin… The first you ever swung in, with… Yer first picnic—yer first ice-cre…

There’s a space for good to bloom… Every heart of man or woman,— And however wild or human, Or however brimmed with gall, Never heart may beat without it;

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,