#AmericanWriters #Epigram
Steer, bold mariner, on! albeit wi… And the steersman drop idly his ha… Ever, ever to westward! There mus… If it but lie distinct, luminous l… Trust to the God that leads thee,…
I said unto myself, if I were dea… What would befall these children?… Their fate, who now are looking up… For help and furtherance? Their l… Would be a volume wherein I have…
A garden; morning;_ PRINCE H… book_. ELSIE, _at a distance, ga… _Prince Henry (reading)._ One mor… Out of his convent of gray stone, Into the forest older, darker, gra…
Little sweet wine of Jurançon, You are dear to my memory still! With mine host and his merry song, Under the rose-tree I drank my fi… Twenty years after, passing that w…
Will ever the dear days come back… Those days of June, when lilacs w… And bluebirds sang their sonnets i… Of leaves that roofed them in from… I know not; but a presence will re…
Safe at anchor in Drontheim bay King Olaf’s fleet assembled lay, And, striped with white and blue, Downward fluttered sail and banner… As alights the screaming lanner;
On the green little isle of Inchk… Who is it that walks by the shore, So gay with his Highland blue bon… So brave with his targe and claymo… His form is the form of a giant,
Solemnly, mournfully, Dealing its dole, The Curfew Bell Is beginning to toll. Cover the embers,
O gift of God! O perfect day: Whereon shall no man work, but pla… Whereon it is enough for me, Not to be doing, but to be! Through every fibre of my brain,
Viswamitra the Magician, By his spells and incantations, Up to Indra’s realms elysian Raised Trisanku, king of nations. Indra and the gods offended
Laugh of the mountain!—lyre of bir… Pomp of the meadow! mirror of the… The soul of April, unto whom are… The rose and jessamine, leaps wild… Although, where’er thy devious cur…
‘Hast thou seen that lordly castle… That Castle by the Sea? Golden and red above it The clouds float gorgeously. ’And fain it would stoop downward
Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers… And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest!
Forth upon the Gitche Gumee, On the shining Big-Sea-Water, With his fishing-line of cedar, Of the twisted bark of cedar, Forth to catch the sturgeon Nahma…
Soon as the story reached its end, One, over eager to commend, Crowned it with injudicious praise… And then the voice of blame found… And fanned the embers of dissent