Wordsworth (John Greenleaf Whittier Poems)
WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF HIS MEMOIRS.Dear friends, who read the world aright,And in its common forms discernA beauty ...
WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF HIS MEMOIRS.Dear friends, who read the world aright,And in its common forms discernA beauty ...
We praise not now the poet's art,The rounded beauty of his song;Who weighs him from his life apartMust do his ...
Poor and inadequate the shadow-playOf gain and loss, of waking and of dream,Against life's solemn background needs must seemAt this ...
AMIDST thy sacred effigiesOf old renown give place,O city, Freedom-loved! to hisWhose hand unchained a race.Take the worn frame, that ...
The shade for me, but over theeThe lingering sunshine still;As, smiling, to the silent streamComes down the singing rill.So come ...
We live by Faith; but Faith is not the slaveOf text and legend. Reason's voice and God's,Nature's and Duty's, never ...
O Mother Earth! upon thy lap Thy weary ones receiving, And o'er them, silent as a dream, Thy grassy mantle ...
To the Memory of the Household It Describes This Poem is Dedicated by the Author "As the Spirit of Darkness ...
Here is the place; right over the hill Runs the path I took; You can see the gap in the ...
Blessings on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan! With thy turned-up pantaloons, And thy merry whistled tunes; ...
Of A Virginia Slave Mother To Her Daughters Sold Into Southern Bondage Gone, gone, -- sold and gone To the ...
Oh, greenly and fair in the lands of the sun, The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run, ...
In the outskirts of the village On the river's winding shores Stand the Occidental plane-trees, Stand the ancient sycamores. One ...
The harp at Nature's advent strung Has never ceased to play; The song the stars of morning sung Has never ...
The sun that brief December day Rose cheerless over hills of gray, And, darkly circled, gave at noon A sadder ...
Maud Muller on a summer's day Raked the meadow sweet with hay. Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth Of ...
Before my drift-wood fire I sit, And see, with every waif I burn, Old dreams and fancies coloring it, And ...
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