I wakened on my hot, hard bed; Upon the pillow lay my head; Beneath the pillow I could hear My little watch was ticking clear. I thought the throbbing of it went

SING, I pray, a little song, Mother dear! Neither sad nor very long: It is for a little maid, Golden-tressed Adelaide!

TELL me, what is a poet’€™s thou… Is it on the sudden born? Is it from the starlight caught? Is it by the tempest taught, Or by whispering morn?

PEACE! what do tears avail? She lies all dumb and pale, And from her eye The spirit of lovely life is fadin… And she must die!

Inesilla! I am here Thy own cavalier Is now beneath thy lattice playing… Why art thou delaying? He hath riden many a mile

I am a Witch, and a kind old Witc… There’s many a one knows that— Alone I live in my little dark ho… With Pillycock, my cat. A girl came running through the ni…

The brand is on thy brow, A dark and guilty spot; ’Tis ne’er to be erased! ’Tis ne’er to be forgot! The brand is on thy brow!

SIT down, sad soul, and count The moments flying: Come,'€”tell the sweet amount That '€™s lost by sighing! How many smiles?'€”a score?

A THOUSAND miles from land are… Tossing about on the roaring sea; From billow to bounding billow cas… Like fleecy snow on the stormy bla… The sails are scatter’d abroad, li…

RISE! Sleep no more! '€™T is a… The dews hang thick on the fringed… And the frost shrinks back, like a… Under the steaming, steaming groun… Behold, where the billowy clouds f…

King Death was a rare old fellow! He sate where no sun could shine; And he lifted his hand so yellow, And poured out his coal-black wine… Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!

HOW many summers, love, Have I been thine? How many days, thou dove, Hast thou been mine? Time, like the winged wind

When I was twenty inches long, I could not hear the thrush’s song… The radiance of the morning skies Was most displeasing to my eyes. For loving looks, caressing words,

GAMARRA is a dainty steed, Strong, black, and of a noble bree… Full of fire, and full of bone, With all his line of fathers known… Fine his nose, his nostrils thin,

The poplars in the fields of Fran… Are golden ladies come to dance; But yet to see them there is none But I and the September sun. The girl who in their shadow sits