Poem Lake | The Greatest Poems of All Time

Woodman, Spare That Tree! Woodman, spare that tree! Touch not a single bough! In youth it sheltered me, And I ’ll protect it now. ’T was my forefather’s hand That placed it near his cot; There, woodman, let it stand, Thy axe shall harm it not. That... Poet: George Pope Morris	We Were Boys Together We were boys together, And never can forget The school-house near the heather, In childhood where we met; The humble home to memory dear, Its sorrows and its joys; Where woke the transient smile or tear, When you and I were boys.... Poet: George Pope Morris	Near the Lake Near the lake where drooped the willow, Long time ago! Where the rock threw back the billow, Brighter than snow, Dwelt a maid, beloved and cherished By high and low; But with autumn’s leaf she perished, Long time ago! ... Poet: George Pope Morris	My Mother's Bible This book is all that ’s left me now! Tears will unbidden start,— With faltering lip and throbbing brow I press it to my heart. For many generations past, Here is our family tree; My mother’s hands this Bible clasped, She, dying,... Poet: George Pope Morris
Where Hudson's Wave Where hudson’s wave o’er silvery sands Winds through the hills afar, Old Cronest like a monarch stands, Crowned with a single star! And there, amid the billowy swells Of rock-ribbed, cloud-capped earth, My fair and gentle Ida dwells,... Poet: George Pope Morris	Jeannie Marsh Jeannie marsh of Cherry Valley At whose call the muses rally; Of all the nine none so divine As Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley. She minds me of her native scenes, Where she was born among the cherries Of peaches, plums, and nectarines,... Poet: George Pope Morris	“Woodman, spare that tree” Woodman, spare that tree! Touch not a single bough! In youth it sheltered me, And I ’ll protect it now. ’T was my forefather’s hand That placed it near his cot; There, woodman, let it stand, Thy axe shall harm it not! That... Poet: George Pope Morris	My Mother’s Bible This book is all that ’s left me now,— Tears will unbidden start,— With faltering lip and throbbing brow I press it to my heart. For many generations past Here is our family tree; My mother’s hands this Bible clasped, She, dying,... Poet: George Pope Morris
The Retort Old Birch, who taught the village school, Wedded a maid of homespun habit; He was as stubborn as a mule, And she as playful as a rabbit. Poor Kate had scarce become a wife Before her husband sought to make her The pink of country polished... Poet: George Pope Morris