#AmericanWriters
Night. PRINCE HENRY _wandering alone… _Prince Henry._ Still is the nigh… Has died away from the empty stree… And like an artisan, bending down
On the green little isle of Inchk… Who is it that walks by the shore, So gay with his Highland blue bon… So brave with his targe and claymo… His form is the form of a giant,
The tide rises, the tide falls, The twilight darkens, the curlew c… Along the sea-sands damp and brown The traveller hastens toward the t… And the tide rises, the tide falls…
I pace the sounding sea—beach and… How the voluminous billows roll an… Upheaving and subsiding, while the… Shines through their sheeted emera… And the ninth wave, slow gathering…
Sweet as the tender fragrance that… When martyred flowers breathe out… Sweet as a song that once consoled… But never will be sung to us again… Is thy remembrance. Now the hour…
Among the many lives that I have… None I remember more serene and s… More rounded in itself and more co… Than his, who lies beneath this fu… These pines, that murmur in low mo…
And now along the horizon’s edge Mountains of cloud uprose, Black as with forests underneath, Above their sharp and jagged teeth Were white as drifted snows.
Tempora labuntur, tacitisque senes… Et fugiunt freno non remorante die… Ovid, Fastorum, Lib. vi. 'O Cæsar, we who are about to die Salute you! ' was the gladiators’…
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…
Once on a time, some centuries ago… In the hot sunshine two Francisca… Wended their weary way, with foots… Back to their convent, whose white… Gleamed on the hillside like a pat…
I leave you, ye cold mountain chai… Dwelling of warriors stark and fro… You, may these eyes behold no more… Rave on the horizon of our plains. Vanish, ye frightful, gloomy views…
I saw, as in a dream sublime, The balance in the hand of Time. O’er East and West its beam impen… And day, with all its hours of lig… Was slowly sinking out of sight,
There was a time when I was very… When my whole frame was but an ell… Sweetly, as I recall it, tears do… And therefore I recall it with de… I sported in my tender mother’s ar…
There is a quiet spirit in these w… That dwells where’er the gentle so… Where, underneath the white-thorn,… The wild flowers bloom, or, kissin… The leaves above their sunny palms…
I heard a voice, that cried, ‘Balder the Beautiful Is dead, is dead!’ And through the misty air Passed like the mournful cry
