When the reaper’s task was ended,… Parson Avery sailed from Newbury,… Dropping down the river-harbor in… Pleasantly lay the clearings in th… With the newly planted orchards dr…

Far away in the twilight time Of every people, in every clime, Dragons and griffins and monsters… Born of water, and air, and fire, Or nursed, like the Python, in th…

He has done the work of a true man… Crown him, honor him, love him. Weep, over him, tears of woman, Stoop manliest brows above him! O dusky mothers and daughters,

The Khan came from Bokhara town To Hamza, santon of renown. ‘My head is sick, my hands are wea… Thy help, O holy man, I seek.’ In silence marking for a space

FAR from his close and noisome ce… By grassy lane and sunny stream, Blown clover field and strawberry… And green and meadow freshness, fe… The footsteps of his dream.

Is this the land our fathers loved… The freedom which they toiled to w… Is this the soil whereon they move… Are these the graves they slumber… Are we the sons by whom are borne

Unnoted as the setting of a star He passed; and sect and party scar… When from their midst a sage and s… To fitter audience, where the grea… In God’s republic of the heart an…

THE pleasant isle of Rügen looks… To the silver-sanded beaches of th… And in the town of Rambin a littl… Plucked the meadow-flowers togethe… Alike were they in beauty if not i…

In that black forest, where, when… With a snake’s stillness glides th… Darkly from sunset to the rising s… A cry, as of the pained heart of t… The long, despairing moan of solit…

Beneath the moonlight and the snow Lies dead my latest year; The winter winds are wailing low Its dirges in my ear. I grieve not with the moaning wind

Long since, a dream of heaven I h… And still the vision haunts me oft… I see the saints in white robes cl… The martyrs with their palms aloft… But hearing still, in middle song,

Men said at vespers: ‘All is well… In one wild night the city fell; Fell shrines of prayer and marts o… Before the fiery hurricane. On threescore spires had sunset sh…

ONCE, more, dear friends, you me… A clouded sky: Not yet the sword has found its sh… And on the sweet spring airs the b… Of war floats by.

A bending staff I would not break… A feeble faith I would not shake, Nor even rashly pluck away The error which some truth may sta… Whose loss might leave the soul wi…

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;