John Neal

  • Music of the Night

    There are harps that complain to the presence of night,
      To the presence of night alone—
      In a near and unchangeable tone—
    Like winds, full of sound, that go whispering by,
    As if some immortal had stooped from the sky,
      And breathed out a blessing—and...

  • Men of the North

    Men of the North, look up!
        There ’s a tumult in your sky;
    A troubled glory surging out,
        Great shadows hurrying by.

    Your strength—where is it now?
        Your quivers—are they spent?
    Your arrows in the rust of death,
        Your fathers...