A BLUSH as of roses Where rose never grew! Great drops on the bunch-grass, But not of the dew! A taint in the sweet air

His laurels fresh from song and la… Romance, art, science, rich in all… And young of heart, how dare we sa… We keep his seventieth festival? No sense is here of loss or lack;

I would not sin, in this half-play… Too light perhaps for serious year… Of the enforced leisure of slow pa… Against the pure ideal which has d… My feet to follow its far-shining…

Low in the east, against a white,… The black-lined silhouette of the… And on a wintry waste Of frosted streams and hillsides b… Through thin cloud-films, a pallid…

THE proudest now is but my peer, The highest not more high; To-day, of all the weary year, A king of men am I. To-day, alike are great and small,

THE Rabbi Ishmael, with the woe… Of the world heavy upon him, enter… The Holy of Holies, saw an awful… With terrible splendor filling all… ‘O Ishmael Ben Elisha!’ said a v…

ANNIE and Rhoda, sisters twain, Woke in the night to the sound of… The rush of wind, the ramp and roa… Of great waves climbing a rocky sh… Annie rose up in her bed-gown whit…

The firmament breaks up. In black… Light after light goes out. One e… Luridly glaring through the smoke… As in the dream of the Apocalypse… Drags others down. Let us not wea…

Where Time the measure of his hou… By changeful bud and blossom keeps… And, like a young bride crowned wi… Fair Shiraz in her garden sleeps; Where, to her poet’s turban stone,

RIGHT in the track where Sherma… Ploughed his red furrow, Out of the narrow cabin, Up from the cellar’s burrow, Gathered the little black people,

Thrice welcome from the Land of F… And golden-fruited orange bowers To this sweet, green-turfed June… To her who, in our evil time, Dragged into light the nation’s cr…

FOR A SUMMER FESTIVAL… Once more on yonder laurelled heig… The summer flowers have budded; Once more with summer’s golden lig… The vales of home are flooded;

THE years are but half a score, And the war-whoop sounds no more With the blast of bugles, where Straight into a slaughter pen, With his doomed three hundred men,

I WOULD the gift I offer here Might graces from thy favor take, And, seen through Friendship’s at… On softened lines and coloring, we… The unaccustomed light of beauty,…