#AmericanWriters
In the minister’s morning sermon He had told of the primal fall, And how thenceforth the wrath of… Rested on each and all. And how of His will and pleasure,
Our vales are sweet with fern and… Our hills are maple-crowned; But not from them our fathers chos… The village burying-ground. The dreariest spot in all the land
'Neath skies that winter never kne… The air was full of light and balm… And warm and soft the Gulf wind b… Through orange bloom and groves of… A stranger from the frozen North,
Behind us at our evening meal The gray bird ate his fill, Swung downward by a single claw, And wiped his hooked bill. He shook his wings and crimson tai…
Pipes of the misty moorlands, Voice of the glens and hills; The droning of the torrents, The treble of the rills! Not the braes of bloom and heather…
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…
The day is closing dark and cold, With roaring blast and sleety show… And through the dusk the lilacs we… The bloom of snow, instead of flow… I turn me from the gloom without,
Its windows flashing to the sky, Beneath a thousand roofs of brown, Far down the vale, my friend and… Beheld the old and quiet town; The ghostly sails that out at sea
O’er the bare woods, whose outstre… Plead with the leaden heavens in v… I see, beyond the valley lands, The sea’s long level dim with rain… Around me all things, stark and du…
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,
‘ALL ready?’ cried the captain; ‘Ay, ay!’ the seamen said; ‘Heave up the worthless lubbers, ’… The dying and the dead.' Up from the slave-ship’s prison
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,
Ho! thou who seekest late and long A License from the Holy Book For brutal lust and fiendish wrong… Man of the Pulpit, look! Lift up those cold and atheist eye…
The pines were dark on Ramoth hil… Their song was soft and low; The blossoms in the sweet May win… Were falling like the snow. The blossoms drifted at our feet,
My thoughts are all in yonder town… Where, wept by many tears, To-day my mother’s friend lays dow… The burden of her years. True as in life, no poor disguise