The fisherman draws his streaming net from the sea
And sails toward the far-off city, that seems
Like one vague tower.
The dark bow plunges to foam on blue-black waves,
And shrill rain seethes like a ghostly music about him
In a quiet shower.

Finis. Time.

© Joseph Furphy

O Time! Time! Time!

Thou wondrous mystery!

The Ginestra,

© Giacomo Leopardi

OR THE FLOWER OF THE WILDERNESS.

On A Dog

© John Kenyon

Thy happy years of deep affection past,
Cartouche! our faithful friend, rest hereat last.
We loved thee for a love man scarce might mate;
And now we place thee here with sadness, great
As man may own for brute. Might less be given
To love so pure as thine and so unriven?

The Temple of Fame

© Alexander Pope

In that soft season, when descending show'rs

Call forth the greens, and wake the rising flow'rs;

Anactoria

© Sappho

of the life we shared here, when you seemed
the Goddess incarnate
to her and your singing pleased her best

The Australian Bell-Bird

© Jean Ingelow

And 'Oyez, Oyez' following after me
On my great errand to the sundown went.
Lost, lost, and lost, whenas the cross road flee
Up tumbled hills, on each for eyes attent
A carriage creepeth.

'Tis The Set Of The Sail -- Or -- One Ship Sails East

© Wilcox Ella Wheeler

But to every mind there openeth,
A way, and way, and away,
A high soul climbs the highway,
And the low soul gropes the low,
And in between on the misty flats,
The rest drift to and fro.

Elegy

© Chidiock Tichborne

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,
My crop of corn is but a field of tares,
And all my good is but vain hope of gain;
The day is past, and yet I saw no sun,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

The Pine Forest Of The Cascine Near Pisa

We wandered to the Pine Forest
That skirts the Ocean's foam,
The lightest wind was in its nest,
The tempest in its home.

The Christian Tourists

No aimless wanderers, by the fiend Unrest
Goaded from shore to shore;
No schoolmen, turning, in their classic quest,
The leaves of empire o'er.

On The Death Of The Queen

Here she concludes Lamira thinks it just
Such pious tears shou'd wait such Royal Dust.

Charms of Precedence - A Tale

"Sir, will you please to walk before?"-

"No, pray, Sir-you are next the door."-

Florence Nightingale

© Emma Lazarus

UPON the whitewashed walls
A woman's shadow falls,
A woman walketh o'er the darksome floors.
A soft, angelic smile
Lighteth her face the while,
In passing through the dismal corridors.

The Legend of St. Laura

Saint Laura, in her sleep of death,
Preserves beneath the tomb
--'Tis willed where what is willed must be--
In incorruptibility
Her beauty and her bloom.