The Fruit-Gift (John Greenleaf Whittier Poems)
Last night, just as the tints of autumn's skyOf sunset faded from our hills and streams,I sat, vague listening, lapped ...
Last night, just as the tints of autumn's skyOf sunset faded from our hills and streams,I sat, vague listening, lapped ...
This day, two hundred years ago,The wild grape by the river's side,And tasteless groundnut trailing low,The table of the woods ...
As o'er his furrowed fields which lieBeneath a coldly dropping sky,Yet chill with winter's melted snow,The husbandman goes forth to ...
IN the old Hebrew myth the lion's frame,So terrible alive,Bleached by the desert's sun and wind, becameThe wandering wild bees' ...
My garden roses long agoHave perished from the leaf-strewn walks;Their pale, fair sisters smile no moreUpon the sweet-brier stalks.Gone with ...
Talk not of sad November, when a dayOf warm, glad sunshine fills the sky of noon,And a wind, borrowed from ...
FROM these wild rocks I look to-dayO'er leagues of dancing waves, and seeThe far, low coast-line stretch awayTo where our ...
Bland as the morning breath of JuneThe southwest breezes play;And, through its haze, the winter noonSeems warm as summer's day.The ...
Here, while the loom of Winter weavesThe shroud of flowers and fountains,I think of thee and summer evesAmong the Northern ...
Seeress of the misty Norland,Daughter of the Vikings bold,Welcome to the sunny Vineland,Which thy fathers sought of old!Soft as flow ...
Gone hath the Spring, with all its flowers,And gone the Summer's pomp and show,And Autumn, in his leafless bowers,Is waiting ...
A tender child of summers three,Seeking her little bed at night,Paused on the dark stair timidly."Oh, mother! Take my hand," ...
Maud Muller on a summer's day Raked the meadow sweet with hay. Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth Of ...
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 ...
In the outskirts of the village On the river's winding shores Stand the Occidental plane-trees, Stand the ancient sycamores. One ...
How strange to greet, this frosty morn, In graceful counterfeit of flower, These children of the meadows, born Of sunshine ...
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