ONE blossoming rose-tree, like a beautiful thought
Nursed in a broken mind, that waits and schemes,
Survives, though shattered, and about it caught,
The strangling dodder streams.

Of The Death Of Sir Thomas Wyatt The Elder

© Henry Howard

Wyatt resteth here, that quick could never rest;
Whose heavenly gifts increased by disdain,
And virtue sank the deeper in his breast;
Such profit he by envy could obtain.

In The Springtime

© Eugene Field

'T is spring! The boats bound to the sea;
The breezes, loitering kindly over
The fields, again bring herds and men
The grateful cheer of honeyed clover.

Songs with Preludes: Friendship

© Jean Ingelow

Beautiful eyes,—and shall I see no more
The living thought when it would leap from them,
And play in all its sweetness ’neath their lids?

Calmly the Paschal moonlight now is sleeping
On mossy hillock and on headstone grey,
Where still our Mother holds in faithful keeping
Such as, while living, in her dear arms lay.
Ah! loving and beloved, we know ye rest,
E'en in the grave, upon her hallow'd breast.

To The Thirty-Ninth Congress

© John Greenleaf Whittier

O PEOPLE-CHOSEN! are ye not
Likewise the chosen of the Lord,
To do His will and speak His word?
From the loud thunder-storm of war

Off Mesolongi

© Alfred Austin

The lights of Mesolongi gleam
Before me, now the day is gone;
And vague as leaf on drifting stream,
My keel glides on.

Miltons Appeal To Cromwell

© Victor Marie Hugo

[CROMWELL, Act III. sc. iv.]

Jerusalem Delivered - Book 01 - part 06

© Torquato Tasso

LXXI

Aurora bright her crystal gates unbarred,

The Bard Of Breffney

Withered with years and broken by Time's play

I still do live, who only seek to lay

Idyll XXV. Heracles the Lion Slayer

© Theocritus

To whom thus spake the herdsman of the herd,
Pausing a moment from his handiwork:
"Friend, I will solve thy questions, for I fear
The angry looks of Hermes of the roads.
No dweller in the skies is wroth as he,
With him who saith the asking traveller nay.

Looking Forward

How busily those little fingers soft

That within mine own are clasped so oft

Ode To Hope

I. 1.

O Thou, who glad'st the pensive soul,

The Dear Brown Head

Only an hour ago we were fearful for you,
Knowing the death and the darkness behind and before you.
Years ago it might be since we were afraid.
Nothing can harm you now, O dear brown head!