The Poems of Thomas Bailey AldrichHoughton, Mifflin, 1897 - 204 pages |
Other editions - View all
Common terms and phrases
amaranth Ammonites Andromeda Asshur Assyrian Bagoas beneath Bideford blazoned blown blue bosom BOSTON COMMON boughs brave breast breath brow cheek cloud dark dawn dead dear death Devon dream drifts dust earth EDWIN BOOTH eyes face fain falchion feet fell finger fled flower Francis Drake gate gold gone grave gray hair hand hath heart heaven Holofernes hour Ischia Israel Judith kaftans knew land leaf leaned light live London Bridge lonely look lord Marah marble mist moan mortal murmurs NECROMANCY night Nineveh once Ozias pallor pass poet prince purple queen rose seemed shadow Shiraz silence sleep smile snow soft sorrow soul spoke stars stay stood strange sweet tears tent thee thine thing thought touch trumpets Tsar turned voice wave whispered wild wind wing word Wyndham Towers
Popular passages
Page 152 - MEMORY My mind lets go a thousand things, Like dates of wars and deaths of kings, And yet recalls the very hour — 'Twas noon by yonder village tower, And on the last blue noon in May — The wind came briskly up this way, Crisping the brook beside the road ; Then, pausing here, set down its load Of pine-scents, and shook listlessly Two petals from that wild-rose tree.
Page 182 - ENAMORED ARCHITECT OF AIRY RHYME" ENAMORED architect of airy rhyme, Build as thou wilt, heed not what each man says : Good souls, but innocent of dreamers' ways, Will come, and marvel why thou wastest time ; Others, beholding how thy turrets climb 'Twixt theirs and heaven, will hate thee all thy days; But most beware of those who come to praise. O Wondersmith, O worker in sublime And heaven-sent dreams, let art be all in all ; Build as thou wilt, unspoiled by praise or blame, Build as thou wilt,...
Page 208 - ... youth's gold about his brow; Our Paladin, our Soldier of the Cross, Not weighing gain with loss — World-loser, that won all Obeying duty's call! Not his, at peril's frown, A pulse of quicker beat; Not his to hesitate And parley hold with Fate, But proudly to fling down His gauntlet at her feet.
Page 96 - t is the man, could it but speak ! " Sad words that shall be said some day — Far fall the day ! O cruel Time, Whose breath sweeps mortal things away, Spare long this image of his prime, That others standing in the place Where, save as ghosts, we come no more, May know what sweet majestic face The gentle Prince of Players wore ! 1 The club-house in Gramercy Park, New York, was the gift of Mr. Booth to the association founded by him and named
Page 190 - So high in heaven no human eye can mark The thin swift pinion cleaving through the gray. Till we awake ill fate can do no ill, The resting heart shall not take up again The heavy load that yet must make it bleed ; For this brief space the loud world's voice is still, No faintest echo of it brings us pain. How will it be when we shall sleep indeed...
Page 7 - t is the bluebird's venturous strain High on the old fringed elm at the gate — Sweet-voiced, valiant on the swaying bough, Alert, elate, Dodging the fitful spits of snow, New England's poet-laureate Telling us Spring has come again !
Page 180 - POSSESSION. 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 winged insect, or the chrysalis It thrust aside with unreluctant foot. Spirit of verse...
Page 204 - I vex me not with brooding on the years That were ere I drew breath: why should I then Distrust the darkness that may fall again When life is done? Perchance in other spheres — Dead planets — I once tasted mortal tears, And walked as now among a throng of men, Pondering things that lay beyond my ken, Questioning death, and solacing my fears.
Page 205 - NOT with slow, funereal sound Come we to this sacred ground ; Not with wailing fife and solemn muffled drum, Bringing a cypress wreath To lay, with bended knee. On the cold brows of Death — Not so, dear God, we come, But with the trumpets...
Page 84 - The soft reiterations sweep Across the horror of their sleep, As if some demon in his glee Were mocking at their misery — " God save the Tsar ! " In his Red Palace over there, Wakeful, he needs must hear the prayer. How can it drown the broken cries Wrung from his children's agonies ? —