Thomas Bailey Aldrich

Take these rhymes into thy grace, Since they are of thy begetting, Lady, that dost make each place

A blight, a gloom, I know not what, has crept upon my gladness-- Some vague, remote ancestral touch of sorrow, or of madness; A fear that is not fear, a pain that has not pain's insistence;

To spring belongs the violet, and the blown Spice of the roses let the summer own. Grant me this favor, Muse--all else withhold--

When first the crocus thrusts its point of gold Up through the still snow-drifted garden mould, And folded green things in dim woods unclose

[Midnight.] First, two white arms that held him very close, And ever closer as he drew him back

GLOUCESTER, AUGUST, 1720 The wind it wailed, the wind it moaned, And the white caps flecked the sea;

Lines Found Among The Papers Of A Harvard Undergraduate The bloom that lies on Fanny's cheek Is all my Latin, all my Greek;

The spare Professor, grave and bald, Began his paper. It was called, I think, "A Brief Historic Glance

[One of the Bearers soliloquizes:] . . . Room in your heart for him, O Mother Earth, Who loved each flower and leaf that made you fair,

CORYDON A PASTORAL SCENE: A roadside in Arcady

From yonder gilded minaret Beside the steel-blue Neva set, I faintly catch, from time to time,

I Who can say where Echo dwells? In some mountain-cave, methinks,

The folk who lived in Shakespeare's day And saw that gentle figure pass By London Bridge, his frequent way--

I vex me not with brooding on the years That were ere I drew breath: why should I then Distrust the darkness that may fall again

I'll not confer with Sorrow Till to-morrow; But Joy shall have her way

"The Southern Transept, hardly known by any other name but Poet's Corner." DEAN STANLEY. Tread softly here; the sacredest of tombs

Curled up and sitting on her feet, Within the window's deep embrasure, Is Lydia; and across the street,

Like Crusoe, walking by the lonely strand And seeing a human footprint on the sand, Have I this day been startled, finding here,

My mind lets go a thousand things, Like dates of wars and deaths of kings, And yet recalls the very hour--

I One by one they go Into the unknown dark--

The sky is gray as gray may be, There is no bird upon the bough, There is no leaf on vine or tree.

Who is Lydia, pray, and who Is Hypatia? Softly, dear, Let me breathe it in your ear--

SCENE: St. Petersburg. Period: the present time. A ballroom in the winter palace of the Prince--. The ladies in character costumes and masks. The gentlemen in official dress and unmasked, with the

Pillared arch and sculptured tower Of Ilium have had their hour; The dust of many a king is blown

Thou singest by the gleaming isles, By woods, and fields of corn, Thou singest, and the sunlight smiles

That face which no man ever saw And from his memory banished quite, With eyes in which are Hamlet's awe

Wouldst know the clash of knightly steel on steel? Or list the throstle singing loud and clear? Or walk at twilight by some haunted mere

I Shakespeare and Milton--what third blazoned name Shall lips of after-ages link to these?

A Middle-Aged Lyrical Poet Is Supposed To Be Taking Final Leave Of The Muse Of Comedy. She Has Brought Him His Hat And Gloves, And Is Abstractedly Picking A Thread Of Gold Hair From His Coat Sleeve As He Begins To Speak: I say it under the rose-- oh, thanks!--yes, under the laurel,

1851-1870 I Now there was one who came in later days

Edward Rowland Sill, Died February 27, 1887 I held his letter in my hand, And even while I read

I beg you come to-night and dine. A welcome waits you, and sound wine-- The Roederer chilly to a charm,

Listen, my masters!    I speak naught but truth. From dawn to dawn they drifted on and on, Not knowing whither nor to what dark end.

A. D. 1670 AGLAE, a widow MURIEL, her unmarried sister.

I Upon your hearse this flower I lay. Brief be your sleep!    You shall be known

Before you reach the slender, high-arched bridge, Like to a heron with one foot in stream, The hamlet breaks upon you through green boughs--