Thomas Bailey Aldrich ( 10 of 31 )
These Winter nights against my window-pane
Nature with busy pencil draws designs
Of ferns and blossoms and read more
These Winter nights against my window-pane
Nature with busy pencil draws designs
Of ferns and blossoms and fine spray of pines,
Oak-leaf and acorn and fantastic vines,
Which she will make when summer comes again--
Quaint arabesques in argent, flat and cold,
Like curious Chinese etchings.
Somewhere, in desolate, wind-swept space,
In twilight land, in no man's land,
Two hurrying shapes met face read more
Somewhere, in desolate, wind-swept space,
In twilight land, in no man's land,
Two hurrying shapes met face to face
And bade each other stand.
"And who are you?" cried one, a-gape,
Shuddering in the glimmering light.
"I know not," said the second shape,
"I only died last night."
Hebe's here, May is here!
The air is fresh and sunny;
And the miser-bees are busy
read more
Hebe's here, May is here!
The air is fresh and sunny;
And the miser-bees are busy
Hoarding golden honey.
No bird has ever uttered note That was not in some first bird's throat; Since Eden's freshness and man's read more
No bird has ever uttered note That was not in some first bird's throat; Since Eden's freshness and man's fall No rose has been original.
In her eyes a thought
Grew sweeter and sweeter, deepening like the dawn,
A mystical forewarning.
In her eyes a thought
Grew sweeter and sweeter, deepening like the dawn,
A mystical forewarning.
But I, in the chilling twilight stand and wait
At the portcullis, at thy castle gate,
Longing read more
But I, in the chilling twilight stand and wait
At the portcullis, at thy castle gate,
Longing to see the charmed door of dreams
Turn on its noiseless hinges, delicate sleep!
When friends are at your hearthside met,
Sweet courtesy has done its most
If you have made read more
When friends are at your hearthside met,
Sweet courtesy has done its most
If you have made each guest forget
That he himself is not the host.
Upon the cunning loom of thought
We weave our fancies, so and so.
Upon the cunning loom of thought
We weave our fancies, so and so.
Only the sea intoning,
Only the wainscot-mouse,
Only the wild wind moaning
Over the read more
Only the sea intoning,
Only the wainscot-mouse,
Only the wild wind moaning
Over the lonely house.
The happy bells shall ring Marguerite;
The summer birds shall sing Marguerite;
You smile but you shall read more
The happy bells shall ring Marguerite;
The summer birds shall sing Marguerite;
You smile but you shall wear
Orange blossoms in your hair, Marguerite.
