Bryant (Botta)
by Anne Lynch Botta English
Like the ancient Grecian marbles,
Is his soul with beauty fraught,
And as polished and enduring
Is the sculpture of his thought.
In the Pantheon of our country,
The Valhalla of her fame,
On the record of her poets,
First of all is traced his name.
More poems by Anne Lynch Botta
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Throw open, once again,
The portals of the tomb;
And give, among the glorious dead, …
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There was a fountain in my heart
Whose deeps had not been stirred;
A thirst for music in my soul …
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The city is dreary and dusty and lone,
The Smiths and the Joneses and Jenkinses gone;
The doors are all barred, and the shutters all down, …
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"Even in our ashes live their wonted fires."
Bury me by the sea,
When on my heart the hand of Death is press'd. …
All poems by Anne Lynch Botta →