Evangeline: Part The First. II. (Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Poems)
NOW had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer,And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion ...
NOW had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer,And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion ...
I. NOONDAY.Two angry men—in heat they sever, And one goes home by a harvest field:—"Hope's nought," quoth he, "and vain endeavor; I ...
The seal of sixty summers now,Cousin Aggie, marks thy brow,If beneath Canadian skiesStill thou livest. Mayhap thou liesWithin the forest's ...
ONE summer day, gleaming in memory,We drove, my Joy and I,Through fragrant hawthorn lanesGold-fringed with wisps of ryeBrushed off the ...
All night in slumber deep the armies lay: But, while the eastern sky with first faint beam Yet dimly reddened; ...
Round Rajagriha five fair hills arose,Guarding King Bimbas?ra's sylvan town:Baibh?ra green with lemon-grass and palms;Bipulla, at whose foot thin SarsutiSteals ...
Resplendent as on that great morn he rose, When, from the inmost depth of heaven's immense, The bright eternal solitude ...
Accurs?d to the Medes, as to himself, That fatal hour when,--mad with fiercest hate,-- His private wrong on one man ...
The sun hath set; the outworn armies sleep: But, in Arbaces' tent, by summons called For counsel secret on things ...
Onward he passed, Exceeding sorrowful, seeing how men Fear so to die they are afraid to fear, ...
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)
Through throats where many rivers meet, the curlews cry,Under the conceiving moon, on the high chalk hill,And there this night ...
THE world runs round, And the world runs well; And at heaven's bound, Weaving what the hours shall tell Of ...
I chanced upon an early walk to spyA troop of children through an orchard gate:The boughs hung low, the grass ...
Too good for the knacker, too poor for the lurry!Let him go to the army that buys in a hurry!Too ...
Autumn clouds are flying, flyingO'er the waste of blue;Summer flowers are dying, dying,Late so lovely new.Labouring wains are slowly rollingHome ...
When the road it is rough and the sun it is strong,And the miles of the country seem long and ...
Where hast thou been in the wind and rain?"Gathering wool on a far plain."Four shepherds keep those flocks afarIn pastures ...
The Word came down to Dives in Torment where he lay: "Our World is full of wickedness, My Children maim ...
When Julius Fabricius, Sub-Prefect of the Weald, In the days of Diocletian owned our Lower River-field, He called to him ...
I The face, which, duly as the sun, Rose up for me with life begun, To mark all bright hours ...
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