Not lips of mine have ever said: “Would God that I were dead!” Nay, cruel griefs! ye cannot break My love of life; nor can ye make Oblivion blest in any wise, Nor death seem sweet for sorrow’s sake. Life! life! my every pulse outcries For life, and love, and quickened breath, O God,—not not for death!
The Cactus towers, straight and tall, Through fallow fields of chapparal; And here and there, in paths apart, A dusky peon guides his cart, And yokes of oxen journey slow, In Mexico. And oft some distant tinkling tells Of muleteers, with wagon bells That jangle sweet...
Dear marshes, by no hand of man Laboriously sown, My river clasps you in its arms And claims you for its own! It laughs, and laughs, and twinkles on Across the reedy soil, That heed of harvest vexes not, Nor need of any toil. And in my heart I joy to know That safe within...
Not lips of mine have ever said: “Would God that I were dead!” Nay, cruel griefs! ye cannot break My love of life; nor can ye make Oblivion blest in any wise, Nor death seem sweet for sorrow’s sake. Life! life! my every pulse outcries For life, and love, and quickened breath...
The cactus towers, straight and tall, Through fallow fields of chapparal; And here and there, in paths apart, A dusky peon guides his cart, And yokes of oxen journey slow, In Mexico. And oft some distant thinkling tells Of muleteers, with wagon bells That jangle sweet...
O little buds, break not so fast! The spring’s but new. The skies will yet be brighter blue, And sunny too. I would you might thus sweetly last Till this glad season’s overpast, Nor hasten through. It is so exquisite to feel The light warm sun; To merely know the winter done, And...
