Thomas Bailey Aldrich ( 10 of 31 )
Come watch with me the shaft of fire that glows
In yonder West: the fair, frail palaces,
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Come watch with me the shaft of fire that glows
In yonder West: the fair, frail palaces,
The fading Alps and archipelagoes,
And great cloud-continents of sunset-seas.
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.
Or light or dark, or short or tall,
She sets a springe to snare them all:
All's read more
Or light or dark, or short or tall,
She sets a springe to snare them all:
All's one to her--above her fan
She'd make sweet eyes at Caliban.
I like not lady-slippers,
Not yet the sweet-pea blossoms,
Not yet the flaky roses,
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I like not lady-slippers,
Not yet the sweet-pea blossoms,
Not yet the flaky roses,
Red or white as snow;
I like the chaliced lilies,
The heavy Eastern lilies,
The gorgeous tiger-lilies,
That in our garden grow.
What probing deep
Has ever solved the mystery of sleep?
What probing deep
Has ever solved the mystery of sleep?
When I behold what pleasure is Pursuit,
What life, what glorious eagerness it is,
Then mark how read more
When I behold what pleasure is Pursuit,
What life, what glorious eagerness it is,
Then mark how full Possession falls from this,
How fairer seems the blossom than the fruit,--
I am perplext, and often stricken mute.
Wondering which attained the higher bliss,
The wing'd insect, or the chrysalis
It thrust aside with unreluctant foot.
We knew it would rain, for the poplars showed
The white of their leaves, the amber grain
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We knew it would rain, for the poplars showed
The white of their leaves, the amber grain
Shrunk in the wind,--and the lightning now
Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain.
Hebe's here, May is here!
The air is fresh and sunny;
And the miser-bees are busy
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Hebe's here, May is here!
The air is fresh and sunny;
And the miser-bees are busy
Hoarding golden honey.
Dear Lord, though I be changed to senseless clay,
And serve the Potter as he turn his wheel,
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Dear Lord, though I be changed to senseless clay,
And serve the Potter as he turn his wheel,
I thank Thee for the gracious gift of tears!
We weep when we are born,
Not when we die!
We weep when we are born,
Not when we die!
