The Irish Cabin (Patrick Branwell Bronte Poems)
Should poverty, modest and clean, E'er please, when presented to view, Should cabin on brown heath, or green, Disclose aught engaging to you, Should ...
Should poverty, modest and clean, E'er please, when presented to view, Should cabin on brown heath, or green, Disclose aught engaging to you, Should ...
The island sleeps,-but it has no delightFor em, to whom that sleep has been unkind.My thoughts are long of what ...
I have builded my hutUpon the stone of conviction.I have latched it with doubt!Aye, and fagotted mine fireWith burning discourse.In ...
March: ?gloga Tertia. Willye & Thomalin.Willye.THomalin, why sytten we soe, As weren ouerwent with woe, Vpon so fayre a morow? ...
When the grey lake-water rushes Past the dripping alder-bushes, And the bodeful autumn wind In the fir-tree weeps and hushes, — When the air is sharply damp Round the solitary camp, And the moose-bush in the thicket Glimmers like a scarlet lamp, — When the birches twinkle yellow, And the cornel bunches mellow, And the owl across the twilight Trumpets to his downy fellow, — When the nut-fed chipmunks romp Through the maples' crimson pomp, And the slim viburnum flushes In the darkness of the swamp, — When the blueberries are dead, When the rowan clusters red, And the shy bear, summer-sleekened, In the bracken makes his bed, — On a day there comes once more To the latched and lonely door, Down the wood-road striding silent, One who has been here before. Green spruce branches for his head, Here he makes his simple bed, Crouching with the sun, and rising When the dawn is frosty red. All day long he wanders wide With the grey moss for his guide, And his lonely axe-stroke startles The expectant forest-side. Toward the quiet close of day Back to camp he takes his way, And about his sober footsteps Unafraid the squirrels play. On his roof the red leaf falls, At his door the bluejay calls, And he hears the wood-mice hurry Up and down his rough log walls; Hears the laughter of the loon Thrill the dying afternoon; Hears the calling of the moose Echo to the early moon. And he hears the partridge drumming, The belated hornet humming, — All the faint, prophetic sounds That foretell the winter's coming. And the wind about his eaves Through the chilly night-wet grieves, And the earth's dumb patience fills him, Fellow to the falling leaves.(Charles G. D. Roberts)
The rust of hours, Through a year of days,Has dulled the edge of the pain; But at night A ...
When the Present has latched its postern behind my tremulous stay, And the May month flaps its glad green leaves ...
Where once the waters of your face Spun to my screws, your dry ghost blows, The dead turns up its ...
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