#AmericanWriters #Epigram
Once into a quiet village, Without haste and without heed, In the golden prime of morning, Strayed the poet’s wingéd steed. It was Autumn, and incessant
PRINCE HENRY _and_ ELSIE,… horseback._ _Elsie._ Onward and onward the hi… to the distant city, impatiently b… Tidings of human joy and disaster,…
Love, love, what wilt thou with th… Naught see I fixed or sure in the… I do not know thee,—nor what deeds… Love, love, what wilt thou with th… Naught see I fixed or sure in the…
There is a quiet spirit in these w… That dwells where’er the gentle so… Where, underneath the white-thorn,… The wild flowers bloom, or, kissin… The leaves above their sunny palms…
Into the city of Kambalu, By the road that leadeth to Ispah… At the head of his dusty caravan, Laden with treasure from realms af… Baldacca and Kelat and Kandahar,
The shades of night were falling f… As through an Alpine village pass… A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and i… A banner with the strange device, Excelsior!
At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay… On board of the Cumberland sloop-… And at times from the fortress acr… The alarum of drums swept past, Or a bugle blast
I know a maiden fair to see, Take care! She can both false and friendly be… Beware! Beware! Trust her not,
It is the Harvest Moon! On gilde… And roofs of villages, on woodland… And their aerial neighborhoods of… Deserted, on the curtained window-… Of rooms where children sleep, on…
The hour was late; the fire burned… The Landlord’s eyes were closed i… And near the story’s end a deep, Sonorous sound at times was heard, As when the distant bagpipes blow.
The old house by the lindens Stood silent in the shade, And on the gravelled pathway The light and shadow played. I saw the nursery windows
Thus then, much care-worn, The son of Healfden Sorrowed evermore, Nor might the prudent hero His woes avert.
Black shadows fall From the lindens tall, That lift aloft their massive wall Against the southern sky; And from the realms
It is autumn; not without But within me is the cold. Youth and spring are all about; It is I that have grown old. Birds are darting through the air,
When winter winds are piercing chi… And through the hawthorn blows the… With solemn feet I tread the hill… That overbrows the lonely vale. O’er the bare upland, and away