Landscape in American Poetry

Front Cover
D. Appleton, 1879 - American poetry - 124 pages
 

What people are saying - Write a review

We haven't found any reviews in the usual places.

Other editions - View all

Common terms and phrases

Popular passages

Page 52 - WE sat within the farmhouse old, Whose windows, looking o'er the bay, Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold, An easy entrance, night and day. Not far away we saw the port,— The strange, old-fashioned, silent town, — The lighthouse, — the dismantled fort,— The wooden houses, quaint and brown. We sat and talked until the night, Descending, filled the little room ; Our faces faded from the sight, Our voices only broke the gloom. We spake of many a vanished scene. Of what we once had thought...
Page 72 - Ye, who sometimes, in your rambles Through the green lanes of the country, Where the tangled barberry-bushes Hang their tufts of crimson berries Over stone walls gray with mosses. Pause by some neglected graveyard, For a while to muse, and ponder On a half-effaced inscription, Written with little skill of song-craft, Homely phrases, but each letter Full of hope and yet of heart-break, Full of all the tender pathos Of the Here and the Hereafter; — Stay and read this rude inscription, Read this Song...
Page 32 - Such as you see in summer, and the winds Scarce stir the branches. Lodged in sunny cleft, Where the cold breezes come not, blooms alone The little wind-flower, whose just opened eye Is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at — Startling the loiterer in the naked groves With unexpected beauty, for the time Of blossoms and green leaves is yet afar.
Page 35 - For number or proportion. Mockingly, On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths; A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn; Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate A tapering turret overtops the work. And when his hours are numbered, and the world Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work, The frolic architecture of the...
Page 119 - THE HUSKERS. IT was late in mild October, and the long autumnal rain Had left the summer harvest-fields all green with grass again ; The first sharp frosts had fallen, leaving all the woodlands gay With the hues of summer's rainbow, or the meadowflowers of May.
Page 52 - The very tones in which we spake Had something strange, I could but mark ; The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark.
Page 39 - This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of old, with voices sad and prophetic, Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
Page 34 - Out of an unseen quarry evermore Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions with projected roof Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Page 76 - Who, hopeless, lays his dead away, Nor looks to see the breaking day Across the mournful marbles play! Who hath not learned, in hours of faith, The truth to flesh and sense unknown, That Life is ever lord of Death, And Love can never lose its own! We sped the time with stories old, Wrought puzzles out, and riddles told, Or stammered from our school-book lore "The Chief of Gambia's golden shore.
Page 61 - Spring still makes spring in the mind When sixty years are told : Love wakes anew this throbbing heart, And we are never old. Over the winter glaciers I see the summer glow, And through the wild-piled snowdrift, The warm rosebuds below.

Bibliographic information