Piatt Sarah Morgan Bryan
Born in August 11, 1836 / Died in December 22, 1919 / United States / English
Poems by Piatt Sarah Morgan Bryan
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An After-Poem
... eir foam only,And keep all their terrible waters below With the jewels and dead men quiet and lonely ...
The Black Princess
... r beauty, robe, and crown:On me, I think, far, faint, and fond, Her eyes to-day look, yearning, down ...
The Christening
... ough every spinning-wheel be stilled In all the country round,Behold, her prophecy must be fulfilled ...
The Coming of Eve
... with her Heart!Yet women, sisters, helping one another, Most surely ye shall choose the better part ...
Engaged Too Long
... - and not you.Younger than you, nor quite so wise,Was he who had your hair and eyes, ...
The House below the Hill
... nd pitiless sun,And my own shadow in the grass,Should hide from me this common grief! Was I not dust ...
A New Thanksgiving
... the rest,We thank Thee, O our Father! Thou who art, And wast, and shalt be -- knowing these are best ...
Out of Tune
... Some night, you guess, the stars will have to fallDown in the grass when everything breaks through ...
The Palace-Burner
... ture of the Commune here,So bright with bitterness and so serene, A being finer than my soul, I fear ...
The Sorrows of Charlotte
... notSuch sorrows, I fancy as yours or mine,But such as in pictures look so fine, And such as can end ...
Transfigured
... -The South-born painter looked the while, With eyes than Christ's alone less sad ...
We Two
... night, Were God's will the pestilence walking by day,The clod in the valley, the rock on the height ...
"We Women"
... d beat),And still demands the maid who paints her face Shall find the world forever smooth and sweet ...
Why Should We Care?
... is God, and He can never change, The fashions of the earth and Heaven may alter, Why should we care ...
The Witch in the Glass
... "My mother says I must not pass Too near that glass;She is afraid that I will seeA little witch that looks like me,With a red, red mouth, to whisper lowThe very thing I should not know!"Alack for all your mother's care! A bird of the air,A wistful wind, or (I supposeSent by some hapless boy) a rose,With breath too sweet, will whisper low,The very thing you should not know! ...
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