Thanksgiving Poem, A
Then and Now
Thou Art My Lute
Till The Wind Gets Right
Time To Tinker 'Roun'!
To a Captious Critic
To A Dead Friend
To A Lady Playing The Harp
To A Violet Found on All Saint's
To An Ingrate
To Dr. James Newton Matthews
To E. H. K.
To J. Q.
To Miss Mary Britton
To The Eastern Shore
To the Memory of Mary Young
To the Miami
To The Road
To the South
Trouble In De Kitchen
Turning Of The Babies In The Bed, The
Twell De Night Is Pas'
Two Little Boots
I was not; now I am--a few days hence,
I shall not be; I fain would look before
And after, but can neither do; some Pow'r
Or lack of pow'r says "no" to all I would.
I stand upon a wide and sunless plain,
Nor chart nor steel to guide my steps aright.
Whene'er, o'ercoming fear, I dare to move,
I grope without direction and by chance.
Some feign to hear a voice and feel a hand
That draws them ever upward thro' the gloom.
But I--I hear no voice and touch no hand,
Tho' oft thro' silence infinite, I list,
And strain my hearing to supernal sounds;
Tho' oft thro' fateful darkness do I reach,
And stretch my hand to find that other hand.
I question of th' eternal bending skies
That seem to neighbor with the novice earth;
But they roll on, and daily shut their eyes
On me, as I one day shall do on them,
And tell me not the secret that I ask.