1. Thomas William Parsons
On a Bust of Dante

  see, from this counterfeit of him
Whom Arno shall remember long,
  How stern of lineament, how grim,
The father was of Tuscan song:
There but the burning sense of wrong,
  Perpetual care and scorn, abide;
Small friendship for the lordly throng;...

Poet: Thomas William Parsons
Dirge

Room for a soldier! lay him in the clover;
He loved the fields, and they shall be his cover;
Make his mound with hers who called him once her lover:
    Where the rain may rain upon it,
    Where the sun may shine upon it,
    Where the lamb hath lain upon...

Poet: Thomas William Parsons
Mary Booth

What shall we do now, Mary being dead,
  Or say or write that shall express the half?
What can we do but pillow that fair head,
  And let the Spring-time write her epitaph!—

As it will soon, in snowdrop, violet,
  Wind-flower and columbine and maiden’s...

Poet: Thomas William Parsons
Her Epitaph

The handful here, that once was Mary’s earth,
  Held, while it breathed, so beautiful a soul,
That, when she died, all recognized her birth,
  And had their sorrow in serene control.

“Not here! not here!” to every mourner’s heart
  The wintry wind seemed...

Poet: Thomas William Parsons
To a Young Girl Dying

This is Palm Sunday: mindful of the day,
I bring palm branches, found upon my way:
But these will wither; thine shall never die,—
The sacred palms thou bearest to the sky!
Dear little saint, though but a child in years,
Older in wisdom than my gray...

Poet: Thomas William Parsons
Into the Noiseless Country

Into the noiseless country Annie went,
  Among the silent people where no sound
Of wheel or voice or implement—no roar
  Of wind or billow moves the tranquil air:

And oft at midnight when my strength is spent
  And day’s delirium in the lull is drowned...

Poet: Thomas William Parsons
Andrew

Ermine or blazonry, he knew them not,
  Nor cloth of gold, for Duty was his Queen;
But this he knew,—a soul without a spot,
  Judgment untarnished, and a conscience clean.

In peace, in war, a worker day and night,
  Laborious chieftain! toiling at his...

Poet: Thomas William Parsons
Obituary

Finding francesca full of tears, I said,
“Tell me thy trouble.” “Oh, my dog is dead!
Murdered by poison!—no one knows for what—
Was ever dog born capable of that?”
“Child,”—I began to say, but checked my thought,—
“A better dog can easily be bought.”...

Poet: Thomas William Parsons
To a Lady

My christmas gifts were few: to one
  A fan, to keep love’s flame alive,
Since even to the constant sun
  Twilight and setting must arrive;

And to another—she who sent
  That splendid toy, an empty purse—
I gave, though not for satire meant,...

Poet: Thomas William Parsons
Like As the Lark

          quale allodetta che in aere si spazia
  Prima cantando, e poi tace, contenta,
  Dell’ ultima dolcezza che la sazia.
DANTE: Paradiso, XX.
Poet: Thomas William Parsons