Cheney (Botta)
The Paint-King, envious of his cunning art,
To him the tinted palette would not lend;
So has he dipped the pencil in his heart,
And with his light and shade its hues still blend.
More poems by Anne Lynch Botta
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A dirge for O'Connell
Throw open, once again,
The portals of the tomb;
And give, among the glorious dead, … -
A farewell to Ole Bull
There was a fountain in my heart
Whose deeps had not been stirred;
A thirst for music in my soul … -
A summer idyl
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, … -
A thought by the sea shore
"Even in our ashes live their wonted fires."
Bury me by the sea,
When on my heart the hand of Death is press'd. …