Robert Burns Wilson

  • Ballad of the Faded Field

    Broad bars of sunset-slanted gold
      Are laid along the field, and here
    The silence sings, as if some old
      Refrain, that once rang long and clear,
      Came softly, stealing to the ear
    Without the aid of sound. The rill
      Is voiceless, and the grass...

  • Such Is the Death the Soldier Dies

      such is the death the soldier dies:
    He falls,—the column speeds away;
      Upon the dabbled grass he lies,
    His brave heart following, still, the fray.

      The smoke-wraiths drift among the trees,
    The battle storms along the hill;
      The glint of...

  • The Sunrise of the Poor

    A darkened hut outlined against the sky,
    A forward-looking slope,—some cedar trees,
    Gaunt grasses stirred by the awaking breeze,
    And nearer, where the grayer shadows lie,
    Within a small paled square, one may descry
    The beds wherein the Poor first taste of...

  • To a Crow

    Bold, amiable, ebon outlaw, grave and wise!
    For many a good green year hast thou withstood—
    By dangerous, planted field and haunted wood—
    All the devices of thine enemies,
    Gleaning thy grudgëd bread with watchful eyes
    And self-relying soul. Come ill or...

  • The Dead Player

    Sure and exact,—the master’s quiet touch,
      Thus perfect, was his art;
    Ambitious, generous, sad, and loving much,
      Was his pain-haunted heart.

    To him, the blissful burthen of her love
      Did stern-browed Fortune give;
    In hell, in heaven, beneath...

  • It Is in Winter That We Dream of Spring

    It is in Winter that we dream of Spring;
      For all the barren bleakness and the cold,
      The longing fancy sees the frozen mould
    Decked with sweet blossoming.

    Though all the birds be silent,—though
      The fettered stream’s soft voice be still,
    And...