#Americans #Victorians
I loved a little maiden In the golden years gone by; She lived in a mill, as they all d… (There is doubtless a reason why). But she faded in the autumn
After Longfellow Loud he sang the song Ta Phershon For his personal diversion, Sang the chorus U-pi-dee, Sang about the Barley Bree.
Be ye happy, if ye may, In the years that pass away. Ye shall pass and be forgot, And your place shall know you not. Other generations rise,
I hear a twittering of birds, And now they burst in song. How sweet, although it wants the w… It shall not want them long, For I will set some to the note
Sleep flies me like a lover Too eagerly pursued, Or like a bird to cover Within some distant wood, Where thickest boughs roof over
Never was sun so bright before, No matin of the lark so sweet, No grass so green beneath my feet, Nor with such dewdrops jewelled o’… I stand with thee outside the door…
The rain had fallen, the Poet aro… He passed through the doorway into… A strong wind lifted his hat from… And he uttered some words that wer… And then he started to follow the…
Oh, will the footsteps never be do… The insolent feet Thronging the street, Forsaken now of the only one. The only one out of all the throng…
I made a truce last night with So… The queen of tears, the foe of sle… To keep her tents until the morrow… Nor send such dreams to make me we… Before the lusty day was springing…
How many the troubles that wait On mortals!—especially those Who endeavour in eloquent prose To expound their views, and orate. Did you ever attempt to speak
Ye who will help me in my dying pa… Speak not a word: let all your voi… Let me but hear some soft harmonio… And I shall die at peace. Music entrances, soothes, and gran…
This is the time when larks are si… And higher still ascending and mor… This is the time when many a fleec… Runs lamb-like on the pastures of… This is the time when most I love…
There was a time when in your face There dwelt such power, and in you… I know not what of magic grace; They held me captive for a while. Ah, then I listened for your voic…
On Her Marriage As those who hear a sweet bird sin… And love each song it sings the be… Grieve when they see it taking win… And flying to another nest:
on returning to St. Andrews In the hard familiar horse-box I… Creeping back to old St. Andrews… Bearing bejants with their luggage… Which the porter, hot and tipless,…