#AmericanWriters #Epigram
No sound of wheels or hoof—beat br… The silence of the summer day, As by the loveliest of all lakes I while the idle hours away. I pace the leafy colonnade,
O, how blest are ye whose toils ar… Who, through death, have unto God… Ye have arisen From the cares which keep us still… We are still as in a dungeon livin…
Gentle Spring! in sunshine clad, Well dost thou thy power display! For Winter maketh the light heart… And thou, thou makest the sad hear… He sees thee, and calls to his glo…
In the convent of Drontheim, Alone in her chamber Knelt Astrid the Abbess, At midnight, adoring, Beseeching, entreating
And then the blue-eyed Norseman t… A Saga of the days of old. ‘There is,’ said he, ‘a wondrous b… Of Legends in the old Norse tongu… Of the dead kings of Norroway,—
Torrent of light and river of the… Along whose bed the glimmering sta… Like gold and silver sands in some… Where mountain streams have left t… The Spaniard sees in thee the pat…
A little bird in the air Is singing of Thyri the fair, The sister of Svend the Dane; And the song of the garrulous bird In the streets of the town is hear…
‘Now that is after my own heart,’ The Poet cried; 'one understands Your swarthy hero Scanderbeg, Gauntlet on hand and boot on leg, And skilled in every warlike art,
On St. Bavon’s tower, commanding Half of Flanders, his domain, Charles the Emperor once was stan… While beneath him on the landing Stood Duke Alva and his train.
Half of my life is gone, and I ha… The years slip from me and have no… The aspiration of my youth, to bui… Some tower of song with lofty para… Not indolence, nor pleasure, nor t…
Who love would seek, Let him love evermore And seldom speak: For in love’s domain Silence must reign;
IT was the month of May. Far dow… Past the Ohio shore and past the… Into the golden stream of the broa… Floated a cumbrous boat, that was… It was a band of exiles: a raft, a…
Oh the long and dreary Winter! Oh the cold and cruel Winter! Ever thicker, thicker, thicker Froze the ice on lake and river, Ever deeper, deeper, deeper
Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers… And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest!
Between the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to low… Comes a pause in the day’s occupat… That is known as the Children’s H… I hear in the chamber above me
