Poetry

Merry Autumn It’s all a farce,—these tales they tell About the breezes sighing, And moans astir o’er field and dell, Because the year is dying. Such principles are most absurd,—

October-November Indian-summer-sun With crimson feathers whips away the mists,— Dives through the filter of trellises And gilds the silver on the blotched arbor-seats. Now gold and purple scintillate On trees

Upon the Heights And victor of life and silence, I stood upon the Heights; triumphant, With upturned eyes, I stood, And smiled unto the sun, and sang A beautifully sad

Sketch The shadows of the ships Rock on the crest In the low blue lustre Of the tardy and the soft inrolling tide. A long brown bar at the dip

Warm Summer Sun   Warm summer sun, Shine kindly here, Warm southern wind, Blow softly here. Green sod above, Lie light, lie light. Good night, dear heart, Good night, good

Study Somewhere the long mellow note of the blackbird Quickens the unclasping hands of hazel, Somewhere the wind-flowers fling their heads back, Stirred by an impetuous wind. Some ways’ll All

I Hear America Singing I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear, Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong, The carpenter singing

Warm Summer Sun Warm summer sun, Shine kindly here, Warm southern wind, Blow softly here. Green sod above, Lie light, lie light. Good night, dear heart, Good night, good night.