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Through leafy windows of the trees The full moon shows a wrinkled face, And, trailing dim her draperies Of mist from place to place,
By prashant sapkota5 years ago in Poets
Shall I sing you a song, not short and not long, Of a story-book fairy who hides all among The covers and leaves of your pictures and prints,
Your home was mine, - kind Nature's gift; My love no years can chill; In vain their flakes the storm-winds sift,
On the beach at night alone, As the old mother sways her to and fro, singing her husky song, As I watch the bright stars shining--I think a thought of the clef of
We, deeming day-light fair, and loving well Its forms and dyes, and all the motley play Of lives that win their colour from the day,
In Denmark gone is many a year, So fair upriseth the rim of the sun, Two sons of Gorm the King there were, So grey is the sea when day is done.
In the deserted, moon-blanched street, How lonely rings the echo of my feet! Those windows, which I gaze at, frown, Silent and white, unopening down,
A still, sweet, placid, moonlight face, And slightly nonchalant, Which seems to claim a middle place Between one's love and aunt,
Art thou already weary of the way? Thou who hast yet but half the way gone o'er: Get up, and lift thy burthen: lo, before
Who will hear me? Whom shall I lament to? Who would pity me that heard my sorrows? Ah, the lip that erst so many raptures
Where olive leaves were twinkling in every wind that blew, There sat beneath the pleasant shade a damsel of Peru. Betwixt the slender boughs, as they opened to the air,
The fresh savannas of the Sangamon Here rise in gentle swells, and the long grass Is mixed with rustling hazels. Scarlet tufts
