Jeannie Marsh.

Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley,
At whose call the muses rally;
    Of all the nine none so divine
As Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley.
She minds me of her native scenes,
    Where she was born among the cherries;
Of peaches, plums, and nectarines,
    Pears, apricots, and ripe strawberries.

Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley,
In whose name the muses rally;
    Of all the nine none so divine
As Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley.
A sylvan nymph of queenly grace,
    A goddess she in form and feature;
The sweet expression of the place,
    A dimple in the smile of nature.

George Pope Morris

George Pope Morris was an American editor, poet, and songwriter. Born on October 10, 1802, he made significant contributions to American literature and music. Morris co-founded and edited the New York Evening Mirror, where he published works by Edgar Allan Poe and others. He is perhaps best known for his song "Woodman, Spare That Tree!" and his role in the early 19th-century literary scene. Morris died on July 6, 1864, leaving behind a legacy of editorial and creative work that influenced many American writers and musicians.

George Pope Morris

To The Evening Star.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Nature's Nobleman. A Fragment.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Lisette.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

The Dream of Love.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The May-Queen.

    Like flights of singing-birds went by
        The cheerful hours of girlhood's day,
                When, in my native bowers,
                Of simple buds and flowers
They wove a crown, and hailed me Queen of May!

    Like airy sprites the lasses came,
        Spring's offerings at my feet to lay;
                The crystal from the fountain,
                The green bough from the mountain,
They brought to cheer and shade the Queen of May.

    Around the May-pole on the green,
        A fairy ring they tripped away;
                All merriment and pleasure,
                To chords of tuneful measure
They bounded by the happy Queen of May.

    Though years have passed, and Time has strown
        My raven locks with flakes of gra...

George Pope Morris

Come to Me in Cherry-time.

Come to me in cherry-time,
    And, as twilight closes,
We will have a merry time,
    Here among the roses!
When the breezes crisp the tide,
    And the lindens quiver,
In our bark we'll safely glide
    Down the rocky river!

When the stars, with quiet ray,
    All the hill-tops brighten,
Cherry-ripe we'll sing and play
    Where the cherries ripen!
Then come to me in cherry-time,
    And, as twilight closes,
We will have a merry time
    Here among the roses.

George Pope Morris

The Pastor's Daughter.

An ivy-mantled cottage smiled,
    Deep-wooded near a streamlet's side,
Where dwelt the village-pastor's child,
    In all her maiden bloom and pride.
Proud suitors paid their court and duty
To this romantic sylvan beauty:
Yet none of all the swains who sought her,
Was worthy of the pastor's daughter.

The town-gallants crossed hill and plain,
    To seek the groves of her retreat;
And many followed in her train,
    To lay their riches at her feet.
But still, for all their arts so wary,
From home they could not lure the fairy.
A maid without a heart they thought her,
And so they left the pastor's daughter.

One balmy eve in dewy spring
    A bard became her father's guest:
He struck his harp, and every string
    To love vibrated in h...

George Pope Morris

Pomona.

I am the ancient Apple-Queen,
As once I was so am I now.
For evermore a hope unseen,
Betwixt the blossom and the bough.

Ah, where's the river's hidden Gold!
And where the windy grave of Troy?
Yet come I as I came of old,
From out the heart of Summer's joy.

William Morris

Nature's Darling

Sweet comes the morning
In Nature's adorning,
And bright shines the dew on the buds of the thorn,
Where Mary Ann rambles
Through the sloe trees and brambles;
She's sweeter than wild flowers that open at morn;
She's a rose in the dew;
She's pure and she's true;
She's as gay as the poppy that grows in the corn.

Her eyes they are bright,
Her bosom's snow white,
And her voice is like songs of the birds in the grove.
She's handsome and bonny,
And fairer than any,
And her person and actions are Nature's and love.
She has the bloom of all roses,
She's the breath of sweet posies,
She's as pure as the brood in the nest of the dove.

Of Earth's fairest daughters,
Voiced like falling waters,
She walks down the meadows, than blossoms more fa...

John Clare

Oh, Would that She were Here!

Oh, would that she were here,
These hills and dales among,
Where vocal groves are gayly mocked
By Echo's airy tongue:
Where jocund nature smiles
In all her boon attire,
And roams the deeply-tangled wilds
Of hawthorn and sweet-brier.
Oh, would that she were here--
The gentle maid I sing,
Whose voice is cheerful as the songs
Of forest-birds in spring!

Oh, would that she were here,
Where the free waters leap,
Shouting in sportive joyousness
Adown the rocky steep:
Where zephyrs crisp and cool
The fountains as they play,
With health upon their wings of light,
And gladness on their way.
Oh, would that she were here,
With these balm-breathing trees,
The sylvan daughters of the sun,
The rain-cloud, and the breeze!

Oh...

George Pope Morris