British Georgics. June (James Grahame Poems)
Beneath the fervour of the noon-tide beamAll Nature's works in placid stillness pause,--Save man, and his joint labourer the horse,The ...
Beneath the fervour of the noon-tide beamAll Nature's works in placid stillness pause,--Save man, and his joint labourer the horse,The ...
IT was the month of May. Far down the Beautiful River,Past the Ohio shore and past the mouth of the ...
The snow is gone from cottage topsThe thatch moss glows in brighter greenAnd eves in quick succession dropsWhere grinning ides ...
IWail! for the Law has scattered into flightThose Drinks that were our sometime dear Delight;And still the Morals-tinkers plot and ...
He was so tired that he was scarcely able to hear a note of the songs: he felt imprisoned in ...
IThe shadows sit and stand about its doorLike uninvited guests and poor;And all the long, hot summer dayThe grating locust ...
He reads my latest attempt at a poemand is silent for a long time, until it feelslike that night we ...
WHERE the pheasant roosts at night,Lonely, drowsy, out of sight,Where the evening breezes sighSolitary, there stray I.Close along the shaded ...
just flew inside my chest. Somedays it lights inside my brain,but today it's in my bonehouse,rattling ribs like a birdcage.If ...
Remember, on your knees,The men who guard your slumbers-And guard a house in a still streetOf drifting leaves and drifting ...
It is a winter's taleThat the snow blind twilight ferries over the lakesAnd floating fields from the farm in the ...
Willie stands in his stable door, And clapping at his steed, And over his white fingers His nose ...
Coe, Berry-brown! Hie, Thistledown!Make haste; the milking-time is come!The bells are ringing in the town,Tho' all the green hillside is ...
A high bare field, brown from the plough, and borne Aslant from sunset; amber wastes of sky Washing the ridge; a clamour of crows that fly In from the wide flats where the spent tides mourn To yon their rocking roosts in pines wind-torn; A line of grey snake-fence, that zigzags by A pond and cattle; from the homestead nigh The long deep summonings of the supper horn. Black on the ridge, against that lonely flush, A cart, and stoop-necked oxen; ranged beside Some barrels; and the day-worn harvest-folk, Here emptying their baskets, jar the hush With hollow thunders. Down the dusk hillside Lumbers the wain; and day fades out like smoke.(Charles G. D. Roberts)
I am like a pelican of the wilderness: I am like an owl of the desert. I watch, and am ...
WHERE the pheasant roosts at night, Lonely, drowsy, out of sight, Where the evening breezes sigh Solitary, there stray I. ...
He reads my latest attempt at a poem and is silent for a long time, until it feels like that ...
You'll rejoice at how many kinds of shit there are: gosling shit (which J. Williams said something was as green ...
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