’skeeters am a hummin’ on de honeysuckle vine,—
Sleep, Kentucky Babe!
Sandman am a comin’ to dis little coon of mine,—
Sleep, Kentucky Babe!
Silv’ry moon am shinin’ in de heabens up above,
Bobolink am pinin’ fo’ his little lady love:
Yo’ is mighty lucky,
Babe of old Kentucky,—
Close yo’ eyes...
-
-
I passed by a garden, a little Dutch garden,
Where useful and pretty things grew,—
Heart’s-ease and tomatoes, and pinks and potatoes,
And lilies and onions and rue.I saw in that garden, that little Dutch garden,
A chubby Dutch man with a spade,
And a rosy Dutch frau with a shoe like a scow,
And a flaxen haired little Dutch maid... -
Nigh to a grave that was newly made,
Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn spade;
His work was done, and he paused to wait
The funeral train at the open gate.
A relic of bygone days was he,
And his locks were white as the foamy sea;
And these words came from his lips so thin:
“I gather them in: I gather them in.“I gather them...
-
He came too late!—Neglect had tried
Her constancy too long;
Her love had yielded to her pride,
And the deep sense of wrong.
She scorned the offering of a heart
Which lingered on its way,
Till it could no delight impart,
Nor spread one cheering ray.He came too late!—At once he felt
That all his power was o’er:... -
as one by one the singers of our land,
Summoned away by Death’s unfailing dart,
Unto the greater mystery depart,
Sadly we watch them from the desolate strand,
Oh! who shall fill their places in the band
Of tuneful voices? Who with equal art
Speak the unwritten language of the heart,
And the mute signs of Nature understand?... -
Technique
could but this be brought
Into your ken,—that the technique is thought!
Escape from “Style,” the notion men can use
Words without thoughts,—so wrench and so abuse
The innocent language to their ends that they
Will seem to be respectful, honest, gay,
Grave, or what else—and all the glorious while
The authors’... -
Fear
there is a sound I would not hear,
Although it music’s self might be;
Lest in my breast a crystal sphere
Might burst, might break for melody.There is a face I would not see
Tho’ like the springtime it were fair;
Lest love that was a barren tree
Should burst in bloom—should blossoms bear.SWEETS THAT DIE...
-
Her aged hands are worn with works of love;
Dear aged hands that oft on me are laid;
Her heart’s below, but, oh, her love’s above,
As flowers do sunward turn though in the shade.The set of sun is dear that lasts not long,
And she is sweeter far than light that dies:
But if her aged body’s weak, she ’s strong;
Her folly, wisdom in a... -
I am the Virgin; from this granite ledge
A hundred weary winters have I watched
The lonely road that wanders at my feet;
And many days I ’ve sat here, in my lap
A little heap of snow, and overheard
The dry, dead voices of sere, rustling leaves;
While scarce a beggar creaked across the way.
How very old I am! I have forgot
The day... -
This is the end of the book
Written by God.
I am the earth he took,
I am the sod,
The wood and iron which he struck
With his sounding rod.I am the reed that he blew:
Once quietly
By the riverside I grew,
Till one day he
Rooted me up and breathed a new
Delirium in me.Would he had...