Oh, long the weary vigils since you left me- Oh! nature's noblest gift- my gray goose-quill, Oh! not in strange portentous way, O hour of all hours, the most blessed upon earth, Oh, the earth and the air!. Oh, the green things growing, Oh! there are looks and tones that dart, Oh, the soul-haunting shadows, Oh! the world gives little of love or light, Oh, to be back in the cool summer shadow, Oh! welcome, Oh, what shall I do, dear, Oh! when 'tis summer weather, "Oh, where hae ye been, my ain Johnnie Oh, who Cabul's sweet region may behold, Oh! who shall lightly say that Fame, Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud? Old friends and dear! it were ungentle rhyme, Old neighbor, for how many a year, O Liberty, thou goddess heavenly bright, O Love Divine, that stoopedst to share, O lovely Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best! "O Mary, go and call the cattle home, O may I join the choir invisible, O Memory! thou fond deceiver, O mystic, mighty flower whose frail white leaves, One adequate support, Once, in the flight of ages past, Once, looking from a window on a land, Once on my mother's breast, a child, I crept, One by one the sands are flowing, One more unfortunate, One reads to me Macaulay's "Lays,"" One summer day, when birds flew high, One sweetly solemn thought,. One word is too often profaned, On Linden, when the sun was low, Only waiting till the shadows, On the cross-beam under the Old South bell, On the eighth day of March it was, some people say, On the Rialto Bridge we stand; On the Righi Kulm we stood, On what foundations stands the warrior's pride, Open the gates of the Temple; O pilgrim, comes the night so fast? O popular applause! what heart of man, O Science, whose footsteps wander, Lover, H. H. Brownell, Spofford, Shelley, 706 . 562 814 R. B. Lytton, 751 Baillie, 27 Clemmer, 129 Bowles, 51 Tennyson, 574 Addison, 3 O sleep! it is a gentle thing,. O sovereign Master! stern and splendid power, O still, white face of perfect peace, O the generations old, O the splendor of the city, O Thou, by Nature taught, O Thou, great Friend to all the sons of men, O Thou, who dry'st the mourner's tear! O Time! who know'st a lenient hand to lay,. O treacherous conscience! while she seems to sleep, O trifling tasks so often done, Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting, Our funeral tears from different causes rise, Our God is all we boast below, Our life is nothing but a winter's day; Our life is twofold! Sleep hath its own world, Our old brown homestead reared its walls, Out of the focal and foremost fire, Out of the thousand verses you have writ, Over my window the ivy climbs, O weathercock on the village spire, O winter, wilt thou never, never go?. O world,' E. B. Browning, Aiken, 797 A. Fields, 225 O ye tears! O ye tears! that have long refused to flow, Mackay, O ye uncrowned but kingly kings, O youth of the world, Bunner. Larcom, Shakespeare, Montgomery, Saxe, Jackson, See you yonder castle stately? Restless forms of living light, Sacred and secret hand! Sad is our youth, for it is ever going, See how the orient dew,. . Seek not to walk by borrowed light, Send down Thy winged angel, God! September waves his golden-rod, Serve God and be cheerful. The motto,. Seven women loved him. When the wrinkled pall, She did not sigh for death, nor make sad moan, She dwelt among the untrodden ways, She had lost many children now, Landon,. 326 "She is dead!" they said to him, . She is not fair to outward view,. H. Coleridge, 134 She is the east just ready for the sun, Redden, . 848 She might have known it in the earlier spring, Bunner,. 808 She's gone to dwell in heaven, my lassie, She's empty: hark! she sounds: there's nothing there, Quarles, She sitteth there a mourner, . She walks in beauty, like the night, Byron, 93 She was a phantom of delight, Wordsworth, 674 She was not white nor brown, E. B. Browning. 67 Shut in a close and dreary sleep, S. M. B. Piatt, 420 Shut, shut the door, good John! Since all that is not heaven must fade, Keble, 316 Some feelings are to mortals given, Some flowers are withered, and some joys have died; Some men employ their health, an ugly trick, Sometime, when all life's lessons have been learned, Somewhere-somewhere a happy clime there is, Sound asleep! no sigh can reach, Speak tenderly! "For he is dead," we say, Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou, Stay yet a little longer in the sky, Still I behold him, every thought employed, Still to be neat, still to be drest, Stoop to my window, thou beautiful dove! Strive not to say the whole! the poet in his art, Strong Son of God, immortal Love, Sum up at night, what thou hast done by day Sun of the sleepless! melancholy star! Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, Sweet winter roses, stainless as the snow, Take the dead Christ to my chamber, Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind, M. R. Smith, Scott,. Mace, 361 Tell me, thou star, whose wings of light, Shelley,. 492 Tell the fainting soul in the weary form, That which her slender waist confined, . The angels come, the angels go, The angels kiss her while she sleeps, The banker, well known, The bard has sung, God never formed a soul, Hill, Barker, 386 The birds are mute, the bloom is filed, The blessings which the weak and poor can scatter, The bubbling brook doth leap when I come by, . The chamber where the good man meets his fate, The day and night are symbols of creation, The eagle nestles near the sun! The emphatic speaker dearly loves to oppose, The fresh May morning's earliest light, The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove, The grave but ends the struggle! The hand that wore thee smooth is cold, The heart, they say, is wiser than the schools! The honey-bee that wanders all day long, The human heart cannot sustain, Their preciousness in absence is proved, The kdly words that rise within the heart, The maid who binds her warrior's sash, The mellow year is hasting to its close The more we live, more brief appear, The Moth's kiss, first! Then before all they stand, -the holy vow, The palace with its splendid dome, The pilgrim and stranger, who, through the day, The place seemed new and strange as death, The place where soon I think to lie, The rain is o'er. How dense and bright, The rain, the desolate rain! The rapid years drag by, and bring not here, Crabbe, |