Song Of America (Ella Wheeler Wilcox Poems)
And now, when poets are singing Their songs of olden days, And now, when the land is ringing With sweet ...
And now, when poets are singing Their songs of olden days, And now, when the land is ringing With sweet ...
Flowers of France in the Spring,Your growth is a beautiful thing;But give us your fragrance and bloom,Yea, give us your ...
In the fair morning of his life, When his pure heart lay in his breast, Panting, ...
The Muse said, Let us sing a little songWherein no hint of wrong,No echo of the great world need, or ...
In Nature's bright blossoms not always reposesThat strange subtle essence more rare than their bloom,Which lies in the hearts of ...
The Radiant Ruler of Mystic RegionsWhere souls of artists are fitted for birth,Gathered together their lovely legionsAnd fashioned a woman ...
I poured out a tumbler of Claret,Of course with intention to drink,And, holding it up in the sunlight,I paused for ...
So thou hast the art, good dame, thou swearest,To keep Time's perishing touch at bayFrom the roseate splendor of the ...
Through rivers of veins on the nameless questThe tide of my life goes hurriedly sweeping,Till it reaches that curious wheel ...
In the faint flush upon the tell-tale cheek,And in the pallor that succeeds it; byThe quivering lid of an averted ...
I saw a fair youth, with a brow broad and white,And an eye that was beaming with intellect's light:And his ...
The year outgrows the spring it thought so sweet,And clasps the summer with a new delight,Yet wearied, leaves her languors ...
Though critics may bow to art, and I am its own true lover,It is not art, but heart, which wins ...
Don't bring into the lodge-roomAnger, and spite, and pride.Drop at the gate of the templeThe strife of the world outside.Forget ...
Life is too short for any vain regretting;Let dead delight bury its dead, I say,And let us go upon our ...
One moment alone in the garden, Under the August skies; The moon had gone but the stars shone on, - ...
The first flower of the spring is not so fair Or bright, as one the ripe midsummer brings. The first ...
We walk on starry fields of white And do not see the daisies; For blessings common in our sight We ...
Life is a privilege. Its youthful days Shine with the radiance of continuous Mays. To live, to breathe, to wonder ...
How does Love speak? In the faint flush upon the tell-tale cheek, And in the pallor that succeeds it; by ...
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