#AmericanWriters #Epigram
A little bird in the air Is singing of Thyri the fair, The sister of Svend the Dane; And the song of the garrulous bird In the streets of the town is hear…
Annie of Tharaw, my true love of… She is my life, and my goods, and… Annie of Tharaw, her heart once a… To me has surrendered in joy and i… Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my go…
In the valley of the Pegnitz, whe… Rise the blue Franconian mountain… Quaint old town of toil and traffi… Memories haunt thy pointed gables,… Memories of the Middle Ages, when…
The guests were loud, the ale was… King Olaf feasted late and long; The hoary Scalds together sang; O’erhead the smoky rafters rang. Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsa…
When the long murmur of applause That greeted the Musician’s lay Had slowly buzzed itself away, And the long talk of Spectre Ship… That followed died upon their lips
Never stoops the soaring vulture On his quarry in the desert, On the sick or wounded bison, But another vulture, watching From his high aerial look-out,
Love, love, what wilt thou with th… Naught see I fixed or sure in the… I do not know thee,—nor what deeds… Love, love, what wilt thou with th… Naught see I fixed or sure in the…
Under Mount Etna he lies, It is slumber, it is not death; For he struggles at times to arise… And above him the lurid skies Are hot with his fiery breath.
(Tristia, Book III. Elegy X.) Should any one there in Rome reme… And, without me, my name still in… Tell him that under stars which ne… I am existing still, here in a bar…
A strain of music closed the tale, A low, monotonous, funeral wail, That with its cadence, wild and sw… Made the long Saga more complete. ‘Thank God,’ the Theologian said,
Little sweet wine of Jurançon, You are dear to my memory still! With mine host and his merry song, Under the rose-tree I drank my fi… Twenty years after, passing that w…
My soul its secret hath, my life t… A love eternal in a moment’s space… Hopeless the evil is, I have not… And she who was the cause nor knew… Alas! I shall have passed close b…
On sunny slope and beechen swell, The shadowed light of evening fell… And, where the maple’s leaf was br… With soft and silent lapse came do… The glory, that the wood receives,
From the outskirts of the town Where of old the mile-stone stood, Now a stranger, looking down I behold the shadowy crown Of the dark and haunted wood.
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,