The Old-Fashioned Garden (John Russell Hayes Poems)
The house is hoary with the mould of years,And crumbling are its ivy-covered walls;The rain-storms dim it with their misty ...
The house is hoary with the mould of years,And crumbling are its ivy-covered walls;The rain-storms dim it with their misty ...
DEAR SIR,--Your letter come to han' Requestin' me to please be funny;But I ain't made upon a plan Thet knows wut's comin', ...
A sound as if from bells of silver,Or elfin cymbals smitten clear,Through the frost-pictured panes I hear.A brightness which outshines ...
When the earliest south winds softly blowOver the brown earth, and the waning snowIn the last days of the discrowned ...
PLUMED ranks of tall wild-cherryAnd birch surroundThe half-hid, solitaryOld burying-ground.All the low wall is crumbledAnd overgrown,And in the turf lies ...
Wild rockets blew along the lane;The tall white gentians too were there;The mullein stalks were brave again;Of blossoms was the ...
LIGHTER than dandelion down,Or feathers from the white moth's wing,Out of the gates of bramble-townThe silkweed goes a-gypsying.Too fair to ...
SWEET are the manners of the wood,Our only old society,Where all the folk are glad and goodIn unrebuked variety.Within this ...
Here we picked wild strawberries,though in my memory we're neither herenor missing. Or I'd scuff outby myself at dusk, proudto ...
By this low rock pool, dark and sweet,Where panting Summer cools her feet,No creature stirs, except the leavesThat sometimes glide ...
I am too near, too clear a thing for you,A flower of mullein in a crack of wall,The villagers half ...
The faithful mullein, day by day,Is up and out beside the way,Or on the upland pasture blowsBeside the rockrose and ...
What would'st thou have for easement after grief, When the rude world hath used thee with despite, And care sits at thine elbow day and night, Filching thy pleasures like a subtle thief? To me, when life besets me in such wise, 'Tis sweetest to break forth, to drop the chain, And grasp the freedom of this pleasant earth, To roam in idleness and sober mirth, Through summer airs and summer lands, and drain The comfort of wide fields unto tired eyes. By hills and waters, farms and solitudes, To wander by the day with wilful feet; Through fielded valleys wide with yellowing wheat; Along gray roads that run between deep woods, Murmurous and cool; through hallowed slopes of pine, Where the long daylight dreams, unpierced, unstirred, And only the rich-throated thrush is heard; By lonely forest brooks that froth and shine In bouldered crannies buried in the hills; By broken beeches tangled with wild vine, And long-strewn rivers murmurous with mills. In upland pastures, sown with gold, and sweet With the keen perfume of the ripening grass, Where wings of birds and filmy shadows pass, Spread thick as stars with shining marguerite: To haunt old fences overgrown with brier, Muffled in vines, and hawthorns, and wild cherries, Rank poisonous ivies, red-bunched elder-berries, And pièd blossoms to the heart's desire, Gray mullein towering into yellow bloom, Pink-tasseled milkweed, breathing dense perfume, And swarthy vervain, tipped with violet fire. To hear at eve the bleating of far flocks, The mud-hen's whistle from the marsh at morn; To skirt with deafened ears and brain o'erborne Some foam-filled rapid charging down its rocks With iron roar of waters; far away Across wide-reeded meres, pensive with noon, To hear the querulous outcry of the loon; To lie among deep rocks, and watch all day On liquid heights the snowy clouds melt by; Or hear from wood-capped mountain-brows the jay Pierce the bright morning with his jibing cry. To feast on summer sounds; the jolted wains, The thresher humming from the farm near by, The prattling cricket's intermittent cry, The locust's rattle from the sultry lanes; Or in the shadow of some oaken spray, To watch, as through a mist of light and dreams, The far-off hayfields, where the dusty teams Drive round and round the lessening squares of hay, And hear upon the wind, now loud, now low, With drowsy cadence half a summer's day, The clatter of the reapers come and go. Far violet hills, horizons filmed with showers, The murmur of cool streams, the forest's gloom, The voices of the breathing grass, the hum Of ancient gardens overbanked with flowers: Thus, with a smile as golden as the dawn, And cool fair fingers radiantly divine, The mighty mother brings us in her hand, For all tired eyes and foreheads pinched and wan, Her restful cup, her beaker of bright wine: Drink, and be filled, and ye shall understand!(Archibald Lampman)
This path will tell me where dark daisies dance To the white sycamores that dell them in; Where ...
Now overhead,Where the rivulet loiters and stops,The bittersweet hangs from the topsOf the alders and cherriesIts bunches of beautiful berries,Orange ...
April this year, not otherwiseThan April of a year ago,Is full of whispers, full of sighs,Of dazzling mud and dingy ...
If it were only still!—With far away the shrillCrying of a cock;Or the shaken bellFrom a cow's throatMoving through the ...
The battle rent a cobweb diamond-strung And cut a flower beside a ground bird's nest Before it stained a single ...
Let Ramah rejoice with Cochineal. Let Gaba rejoice with the Prickly Pear, which the Cochineal feeds on. Let Nebo rejoice ...
April this year, not otherwise Than April of a year ago, Is full of whispers, full of sighs, Of dazzling ...
If it were only still!- With far away the shrill Crying of a cock; Or the shaken bell From a ...
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