I. She sang, and I heard the singing, Far out of the wretched past, Of meadow-larks in the meadow, In a breathing of t...

Up and down the dusty street, I hurry with my burning feet; Against my face the wind-waves beat, Fierce from the city-sea of hea...

The summer sun was soft and bland, As they went through the meadow land. The little wind that hardly shook The silver of...

I. The colonel rode by his picket-line In the pleasant morning sun, That glanced from him far off to shine On the crou...

"Every Rose, you sang, has its Thorn, But this has none, I know." She clasped my rival's Rose Over her breast of s...

There is a bird that comes and sings In the Professor's garden-trees; Upon the English oak he swings, And tilts and tosses i...

The lonesome graveyard lieth, A deep with silent waves Of night-long snow, all white, and billowed Over the hidden graves.

Her mouth is a honey-blossom, No doubt, as the poet sings; But within her lips, the petals, Lurks a cruel bee, that stings.

I. Confronting each other the pictures stare Into each other's sleepless eyes; And the daylight into the darkness di...

The robin sings in the elm; The cattle stand beneath, Sedate and grave, with great brown eyes And fragrant meadow-breath.

I. It was a story the pilot told, with his back to his hearers,-- Keeping his hand on the wheel and his eye on the globe of the jack-staff...

Once on my mother's breast, a child, I crept, Holding my breath; There, safe and sad, lay shuddering, and wept At the dark m...

I. On the Rialto Bridge we stand; The street ebbs under and makes no sound; But, with bargains shrieked on every hand, ...

Yes! they are here again, the long, long days, After the days of winter, pinched and white; Soon, with a thousand minstrels ...

Ah me! is it then true that the year has waxed unto waning, And that so soon must remain nothing but lapse and decay,-- Earliest c...

I. Federigo, the son of the Marquis, Downcast, through the garden goes: He is hurt with the grace of the lily, And the...

The wet trees hang above the walks Purple with damps and earthish stains, And strewn by moody, absent rains With rose-leaves fro...

She sits beside the low window, In the pleasant evening-time, With her face turned to the sunset, Reading a book of rhyme.

Out of its fragrant heart of bloom,-- The bobolinks are singing! Out of its fragrant heart of bloom The apple-tree whispers to t...

"The day had been one of dense mists and rains, and much of General Hooker's battle was fought above the clouds, on the top...