Dey is times in life when Nature Seems to slip a cog an’ go, Jes’ a—rattlin’ down creation, Lak an ocean’s overflow; When de worl’ jes’ stahts a—spinni…

BREEZES blowin’ middlin’ brisk, Snow-flakes thro’ the air a-whisk, Fallin’ kind o’ soft an’ light, Not enough to make things white, But jest sorter siftin’ down

WHAT if the wind do howl without… And turn the creaking weather—vane… What if the arrows of the rain Do beat against the window—pane? Art thou not armored strong and fa…

Across the hills and down the narr… And up the valley where the free w… The earth is folded in an ermined… That mocks the melting mirth of my… Departed her disheartening duns an…

Gray is the palace where she dwell… Grimly the poplars stand There by the window where she sits… My Lady of Castle Grand. There does she bide the livelong d…

Hyeah dat singin’ in de medders Whaih de folks is mekin’ hay? Wo’k is pretty middlin’ heavy Fu’ a man to be so gay. You kin tell dey 's somep’n specia…

Heart of my heart, the day is chil… The mist hangs low o’er the wooded… The soft white mist and the heavy… The sun and the face of heaven shr… The birds are thick in the drippin…

I know a little country place Where still my heart doth linger, And o’er its fields is every grace Lined out by memory’s finger. Back from the lane where poplars g…

OH, the poets may sing of their L… And may rave in their rhymes about… But I throw my poetical wings to… And soar in a song to my Lady Lou… A sweet little maid, who is dearer…

The snow lies deep upon the ground… And winter’s brightness all around Decks bravely out the forest sere, With jewels of the brave old year. The coasting crowd upon the hill

In the tents of Akbar Are dole and grief to—day, For the flower of all the Indies Has gone the silent way. In the tents of Akbar

We is gathahed hyeah, my brothahs, In dis howlin’ wildaness, Fu’ to speak some words of comfo’t To each othah in distress. An’ we chooses fu’ ouah subjic’

Seems lak folks is mighty curus In de way dey t’inks an’ ac’s. Dey jes’ spen’s dey days a—mixin’ Up de t’ings in almanacs. Now, I min’ my nex’ do’ neighbour…

'Tis an old deserted homestead On the outskirts of the town, Where the roof is all moss—covered… And the walls are tumbling down; But around that little cottage

With what thou gavest me, O Maste… I have wrought. Such chances, such abilities, To see the end was not for my poor… Thine was the impulse, thine the f…