Pet poems/ page 4 of 134 /
Say you managed just one word more on a sheet as paper-white as snow; a footprint, a miracle, it pointed ahead and others followed dutifully as pets stopping only to look forward and seize unfolding years perched on blue lines, wires carrying voices from eternity, never faltering for phrases, life, or song
During a tempest encountered homeward-bound from the Mediterranean, a grizzled petty-officer, one of the two captains of the forecastle, dying at night in his hammock, swung in the sick-bay under the tiered gun-decks of the British Dreadnought, 98, wandering in his mind, though with glimpses of sanity, and starting up at whiles, sings by snatches his good-bye and last injunctions to two messmates, his watchers, one of whom fans the fevered tar with the flap of his old sou'-wester
And thou art gone, my poor dumb friend! thy troubles all are past;A faithful friend thou wert indeed, e'en to the very last!And thou wert the prop of my house, my children's pride and pet,--Who now will help to free me from this weary load of debt?
Here, single-handed, in the bush I battled on for years,My heart sometimes buoyed up with hope, sometimes bowed down with fears
Here, where precipitate Spring with one light boundInto hot Summer's lusty arms expires;And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night,Soft airs, that want the lute to play with them,And softer sighs, that know not what they want;Under a wall, beneath an orange-treeWhose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier onesOf sights in Fiesole right up above,While I was gazing a few paces offAt what they seemed to show me with their nods,Their frequent whispers and their pointing shoots,A gentle maid came down the garden-stepsAnd gathered the pure treasure in her lap