Sleep, motley, with the great of ancient days,
Who wrote for all the years that yet shall be!
Sleep with Herodotus, whose name and praise
Have reached the isles of earth’s remotest sea;
Sleep, while, defiant of the slow decays
Of time, thy glorious writings speak for thee,
And in the answering heart of millions raise
The generous zeal for...
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Enchantress, touch no more that strain!
I know not what it may contain,
But in my breast such mood it wakes
My very spirit almost breaks.
Thoughts come from out some hidden realm
Whose dim memorials overwhelm,
Still bring not back the things I lost,—
Still bringing all the pain they cost. -
My mind lets go a thousand things,
Like dates of wars and deaths of kings,
And yet recalls the very hour—
’T was noon by yonder village tower,
And on the last blue noon in May—
The wind came briskly up this way,
Crisping the brook beside the road;
Then, pausing here, set down its load
Of pine-scents, and shook listlessly
... -
White wings of commerce sailing far,
Hot steam that drives the weltering wheel,
Tamed lightning speeding on the wire,
Iron postman on the way of steel,—
These, circling all the world, have told
The loss that makes us desolate;
For we give back to dust this day
The God-sent man who saved the state.When black the sky and...
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My absent daughter—gentle, gentle maid,
Your life doth never fade!
O, everywhere I see your blue eyes shine,
And on my heart, in healing or command,
I feel the pressure of your small, warm hand
That slipped at dawn, almost without a sign,
So softly out of mine!The birds all sing of you, my darling one;
Your day... -
A rose’s crimson stain,
A rose’s stainless white,
Fitly become the immortal slain
Who fell in the great fight.
When Armistead died amid his foes,
Girt by the rebel cheer,
God plucked a soul like a white rose
In June time o’ the year.The blood in Pickett’s heart
Was of a ruddier hue
Than... -
Among the beautiful pictures
That hang on Memory’s wall
Is one of a dim old forest,
That seemeth best of all;
Not for its gnarled oaks olden,
Dark with the mistletoe;
Not for the violets golden
That sprinkle the vale below;
Not for the milk-white lilies
That lean from the fragrant ledge,
Coquetting all... -
If stores of dry and learnèd lore we gain,
We keep them in the memory of the brain;
Names, things, and facts,—whate’er we knowledge call,—
There is the common ledger for them all;
And images on this cold surface traced
Make slight impression, and are soon effaced.
But we ’ve a page, more glowing and more bright,
On which our friendship... -
From “All ’s Well That Ends Well,” Act I. Sc. 1.
I AM undone: there is no living, none,
If Bertram be away. It were all one,
That I should love a bright particular star,
And think to wed it, he is so above me:
In his bright radiance and collateral light
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.
The ambition in my love thus plagues itself:... -
Who Died at Milan, June 6, 1860
“Jesus saith unto her, Woman, why weepest thou? whom seekest thou? She, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him.”
—JOHN xx. 15.IN the fair gardens of celestial peace
Walketh a gardener in meekness clad;
Fair are the flowers that wreathe...