A Little way below her chin,
Caught in her bosom’s snowy hem,
Some buttercups are fastened in,—
Ah, how I envy them!
They do not miss their meadow place,
Nor are they conscious that their skies
Are not the heavens, but her face,
Her...
Frank Dempster Sherman
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By the fire that loves to tint her
Cheeks the color of a rose,
While the wanton winds of winter
Lose the landscape in the snows,—
While the air grows keen and bitter,
And the clean-cut silver stars
Tremble in the cold and glitter
... -
All up and down in shadow-town
The shadow children go;
In every street you ’re sure to meet
Them running to and fro.They move around without a sound,
They play at hide-and-seek,
But no one yet that I have met
Has ever heard them... -
See, yonder, the belfry tower
That gleams in the moon’s pale light;
Or is it a ghostly flower
That dreams in the silent night?I listen and hear the chime
Go quavering o’er the town,
And out of this flower of Time
Twelve petals... -
All up and down in shadow-town
The shadow children go;
In every street you ’re sure to meet
Them running to and fro.They move around without a sound,
They play at hide-and-seek,
But no one yet that I have met
Has ever heard them... -
Down in a garden olden,—
Just where, I do not know,—
A buttercup all golden
Chanced near a rose to grow;
And every morning early,
Before the birds were up,
A tiny dewdrop pearly
Fell in this little cup.This was the drink...
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A quatrain
hark at the lips of this pink whorl of shell
And you shall hear the ocean’s surge and roar:
So in the quatrain’s measure, written well,
A thousand lines shall all be sung in four!A HOLLYHOCK
SERAGLIO of the Sultan Bee!... -
Give me the room whose every nook
Is dedicated to a book:
Two windows will suffice for air
And grant the light admission there,—
One looking to the south, and one
To speed the red, departing sun.
The eastern wall from frieze to plinth
Shall... -
A little way below her chin,
Caught in her bosom’s snowy hem,
Some buttercups are fastened in,—
Ah, how I envy them!They do not miss their meadow place,
Nor are they conscious that their skies
Are not the heavens, but her face,
... -
Go, rose, and in her golden hair
You shall forget the garden soon;
The sunshine is a captive there
And crowns her with a constant noon.And when your spicy odor goes,
And fades the beauty of your bloom,
Think what a lovely hand, O Rose,...