To a Lady
You ask a verse, to sing (ah, laughing face!)
Your happy art of growing old with grace?
O Muse, begin, and let the truth—but hold!
First let me see that you are growing old.
More poems by John James Piatt
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Farther
Far-off a young State rises, full of might:
I paint its brave escutcheon. Near at hand
See the log-cabin in the rough clearing stand; … -
Ireland
A great, still Shape, alone,
She sits (her harp has fallen) on the sand,
And sees her children, one by one, depart:— … -
Ireland
A Seaside Portrait
A GREAT, still Shape, alone,
She sits (her harp has fallen) on the sand, … -
Leaves at My Window
I watch the leaves that flutter in the wind,
Bathing my eyes with coolness and my heart
Filling with springs of grateful sense anew, …