PoemsHoughton Mifflin, 1914 - 176 pages |
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amid beguiled behold bird Bishop boughs bowers breast breath breeze bright brow chrism Christ Count of Mirandel cowslip-gold cried Dartmoor dashing blade dawn death deep Demoiselle desert dipping drift dusk earth eyes face fair Fiesole flower gaunt rock glamour gleam glory glow gold golden gray Hassoun heart Hesperides Ivy Lane King of Dreams Lebanon life's lions lips Lord love's Maestro Wind mist crept moon moonrise morning naught never night noon o'er radiant Ramadan Rapture roar rose sail Shekh Abdallah shining shore SIDNEY GODOLPHIN sing sleep smile snow soft soldier's art song soul splendor stars Suleima sunset surge sway sweet Taillefer the Trouvere taken song thine thing Thor thou thrall throbbing tide Till Song twilight unto voice VOYAGE OF VERRAZANO walk darkly warm WATER-SPRITES Whither wind wings wings of wonder wrought Yule YULE AT THENGELFOR
Popular passages
Page 4 - The Magi that the Moslem shun, And grave Effendi from Stamboul, Who sherbet sipped in corners cool; And, from the balconies o'errun With roses, gleamed the eyes of those Who dwell in still seraglios, As I came down from Lebanon. As I came down from Lebanon, The flaming flower of daytime died, And Night, arrayed as is a bride Of some great king, in garments spun Of purple and the finest gold, Outbloomed in glories manifold, Until the moon, above the dun And darkening desert, void of shade, Shone like...
Page 3 - ... with radiant beams of sun, And glistened orange, fig, and lime Where songbirds made melodious chime, As I came down from Lebanon. As I came down from Lebanon...
Page 3 - As I came down from Lebanon, Like lava in the dying glow, Through olive orchards far below I saw the murmuring river run ; And 'neath the wall upon the sand Swart...
Page 54 - HAD I the power To cast a bell that should, from some grand tower, At the first Christmas hour, Out-ring, And fling A jubilant message wide, The forged metals should be thus allied; — No iron Pride, But soft Humility and rich-veined Hope Cleft from a sunny slope, And there should be White Charity, And silvery Love, that knows not Doubt nor Fear, To make the peal more clear; And then, to firmly fix the fine alloy, There should be Joy!
Page 39 - t is godlike to create ! IN THE LIBRARY. „ «, From ' With Reed and Lyre.' CLINTON SCOLLARD. /&S6. FROM the oriels one by one, Slowly fades the setting sun; On the marge of afternoon Stands the new-born crescent moon. In the twilight's crimson glow Dim the quiet alcoves grow. Drowsy-lidded Silence smiles On the long deserted aisles ; Out of every shadowy nook Spirit faces seem to look. Some with smiling eyes, and some With a sad entreaty dumb ; He who shepherded his sheep On the wild Sicilian steep,...
Page 41 - WANDERER'S SONG. There will be, when 1 come home, through the hill-gap in the west, The friendly smile of the sun on the fields that I love best; The red-topped clover here, and the white-whorled daisy there, And the bloom of the wilding briar that attars the upland air ; There will be bird-mirth sweet — (mellower none may know!) — The flute of the...
Page 6 - And still the wind, the ruthless wind, Khamsin, The wind from the desert, blew in. Into the cool of the mosque it crept, Where the poor sought rest at the Prophet's shrine ; Its breath was fire to the jasmine vine ; It fevered the brow of the maid who slept, And men grew haggard with revel of wine. The tiny fledgelings died in the nest ; The sick babe gasped at the mother's breast. Then a rumor rose and swelled and spread From a tremulous whisper, faint and vague, Till it burst in a terrible cry...
Page 6 - Reeled and swam in the brazen light; And prayers went up by day and night, But thin and drawn were the lips that prayed. The river writhed in its slimy bed, Shrunk to a tortuous, turbid thread; The burnt earth cracked like a cloven rind; And still the wind, the ruthless wind, Khamsin, The wind from the desert, blew in! Into the cool of the mosque it crept, Where the poor sought rest at the prophet's shrine; Its breath was fire to the jasmine vine; It fevered the brow of the maid who slept, And men...
Page 35 - At the forward sweep of the sun, I shall be satisfied If only the dreams abide. Nay, I would not be shorn Of gold from the mines of morn ! I would not be bereft Of the last blue flower in the cleft, — Of the haze that haunts the hills, Or the moon that the midnight fills ! Still would I know the grace Upon love's uplifted face. And the slow, sweet joy-dawn there Under the dusk of her hair.
Page 136 - And perchance an Elzevir; Here are countless "mos" of chaff, And a parchment folio, Like leaves that are cracked with cold, All puckered and brown and sear. In every age and clime Live the monarchs of the brain: And the lords of prose and rhyme, Years after the long last sleep Has come to the kings of earth And their names have passed away, Rule on through death and birth ; And the thrones of their domain Are...