#AmericanWriters #Epigram
It was Sir Christopher Gardiner, Knight of the Holy Sepulchre, From Merry England over the sea, Who stepped upon this continent As if his august presence lent
'Twas Pentecost, the Feast of Gl… When woods and fields put off all… Thus began the King and spake: So from the halls Of ancient Hofburgh’s walls,
‘The rivers rush into the sea, By castle and town they go; The winds behind them merrily Their noisy trumpets blow. ’The clouds are passing far and hi…
The summer sun is sinking low; Only the tree-tops redden and glow… Only the weathercock on the spire Of the neighboring church is a fla… All is in shadow below.
Mr. Finney had a turnip, And it grew, and it grew, And it grew behind the barn, And the turnip did no harm. And it grew, and it grew,
FOUR times the sun had risen and… Cheerily called the cock to the sl… Soon o’er the yellow fields, in si… Came from the neighboring hamlets… Driving in ponderous wains their h…
‘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
No hay pajaros en los nidos de ant… Spanish Proverb The sun is bright,—the air is clea… The darting swallows soar and sing… And from the stately elms I hear
O sweet illusions of song That tempt me everywhere, In the lonely fields, and the thro… Of the crowded thoroughfare! I approach and ye vanish away,
Simon Danz has come home again, From cruising about with his bucca… He has singed the beard of the Ki… And carried away the Dean of Jaen And sold him in Algiers.
Once upon Iceland’s solitary stra… A poet wandered with his book and… Seeking some final word, some swee… Wherewith to close the volume in h… The billows rolled and plunged upo…
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,
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…
O let the soul her slumbers break, Let thought be quickened, and awak… Awake to see How soon this life is past and gon… And death comes softly stealing on…