The Term of Death
Between the falling leaf and rose-bud’s breath;
The bird’s forsaken nest and her new song
(And this is all the time there is for Death);
The worm and butterfly—it is not long!
More poems by Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt
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A Call on Sir Walter Raleigh
“ay, not at home, then, didst thou say?
—And, prithee, hath he gone to court?”
“Nay; he hath sailed but yesterday, … -
After Wings
This was your butterfly, you see,—
His fine wings made him vain:
The caterpillars crawl, but he … -
An Irish Wild-Flower
She felt, I think, but as a wild-flower can,
Through her bright fluttering rags, the dark, the cold.
Some farthest star, remembering what man … -
Envoy
Sweet world, if you will hear me now:
I may not own a sounding Lyre
And wear my name upon my brow …