#AmericanWriters #Epigram
In the convent of Drontheim, Alone in her chamber Knelt Astrid the Abbess, At midnight, adoring, Beseeching, entreating
The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight. I see the lights of the village
Sweet the memory is to me Of a land beyond the sea, Where the waves and mountains meet… Where amid her mulberry—trees Sits Amalfi in the heat,
Southward with fleet of ice Sailed the corsair Death; Wild and gast blew the blast, And the east—wind was his breath. His lordly ships of ice
Oft I remember those I have known In other days, to whom my heart wa… As by a magnet, and who are not de… But absent, and their memories ove… With other thoughts and troubles o…
Becalmed upon the sea of Thought, Still unattained the land it sough… My mind, with loosely-hanging sail… Lies waiting the auspicious gales. On either side, behind, before,
Sweet babe! true portrait of thy f… Sleep on the bosom that thy lips h… Sleep, little one; and closely, ge… Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother’s… Upon that tender eye, my little fr…
From the river’s plashy bank, Where the sedge grows green and ra… And the twisted woodbine springs, Upward speeds the morning lark To its silver cloud—and hark!
Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope… And Valmond, Emperor of Allemain… Apparelled in magnificent attire, With retinue of many a knight and… On St. John’s eve, at vespers, pr…
'O Edrehi, forbear to-night Your ghostly legends of affright, And let the Talmud rest in peace; Spare us your dismal tales of deat… That almost take away one’s breath…
The Landlord ended thus his tale, Then rising took down from its nai… The sword that hung there, dim wit… And cleaving to its sheath with ru… And said, ‘This sword was in the…
He ended: and a kind of spell Upon the silent listeners fell. His solemn manner and his words Had touched the deep, mysterious c… That vibrate in each human breast
"O Cæsar, we who are about to die Salute you!" was the gladiators’ c… In the arena, standing face to fac… With death and with the Roman pop… O ye familiar scenes,—ye groves of…
It is autumn; not without But within me is the cold. Youth and spring are all about; It is I that have grown old. Birds are darting through the air,
‘Yes, well your story pleads the c… Of those dumb mouths that have no… Only a cry from each to each In its own kind, with its own laws… Something that is beyond the reach