A Poet’s Epitaph
STOP, mortal! Here thy brother lies,—
The poet of the poor.
His books were rivers, woods, and skies,
The meadow and the moor;
His teachers were the torn heart’s wail,
The tyrant, and the slave,
The street, the factory, the jail,
The palace,—and the grave!
Sin met thy brother...
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On Receiving a Sprig of Heather in Blossom
NO more these simple flowers belong
To Scottish maid and lover;
Sown in the common soil of song,
They bloom the wide world over.In smiles and tears, in sun and showers,
The minstrel and the heather,
The deathless singer and the flowers
He sang of live together.Wild...