Mary's Dream

    The moon had climbed the eastern hill
    Which rises o'er the sands of Dee,
    And from its highest summit shed
    A silver light on tower and tree,
    When Mary laid her down to sleep
    (Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea);
    When soft and low a voice was heard,
    Saying, 'Mary, weep no more for me.'


    She from her pillow gently raised
    Her head, to see who there might be,
    And saw young Sandy, shivering stand
    With visage pale and hollow e'e.
    'Oh Mary dear, cold is my clay;
    It lies beneath the stormy sea;
    Far, far from thee, I sleep in death.
    Dear Mary, weep no more for me.


    'Three stormy nights and stormy days
    We tossed upon the raging main.
    And long we strove our bark to save;
    But all our striving was in vain.
    E'en then, when terror chilled my blood,
    My heart was filled with love of thee.
    The storm is past, and I'm at rest;
    So, Mary, weep no more for me.


    'Oh maiden dear, yourself prepare;
    We soon shall meet upon that shore
    Where love is free from doubt and care,
    And you and I shall part no more.'
    Loud crew the cock, the shadow fled;
    No more her Sandy did she see;
    But soft the passing spirit said,
    'Sweet Mary, weep no more for me.'

Louisa May Alcott

Louisa May Alcott was an American novelist and poet best known as the author of the novel 'Little Women' and its sequels 'Little Men' and 'Jo's Boys.' Born in Germantown, Pennsylvania, she grew up in Massachusetts. She was an abolitionist and a feminist and was active in both the Transcendentalist and suffragist movements. Alcott began writing to support her family and went on to publish numerous works that have had a lasting impact on American literature.

Louisa May Alcott

Splash, Dash!

Louisa May Alcott, Simple Poetry

Gingerbread

Louisa May Alcott, Simple Poetry

He That Is Down Need Fear No Fall

Louisa May Alcott, Simple Poetry

Fragments from "The Mysterious Key And What It Opened"

Louisa May Alcott, 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.

Mary Hume. A Ballad.

"He will come to night," young Mary said,
    And checked the rising sigh;
And gazed on the stars that o'er her head
    Shone out in the deep blue sky.
"Heaven speed his voyage!--though absent long,
    The painful vigil's o'er--
The skies are clear--the breeze is strong--
    We meet to part no more!"

While yet she spoke a sudden chill
    O'er her ardent spirit crept;
A sad presentiment of ill--
    She turned away and wept.
Far off the sigh of ocean stole--
    The sweeping of the sounding surge--
In plaintive murmurs o'er her soul,
    Like wailing of a funeral dirge.

And in the wind there is a tone
    Which whispers to her sinking heart--
"Mary we meet in death alone;
    In realms of bliss no more to part."
The moon has ...

Susanna Moodie

Mary's Death

Mary, ah me! gentle Mary,
    Can it be you're lying there,
Pale and still, and cold as marble,
    You that was so young and fair.

Seemeth it as yestereven,
    When the golden autumn smiled,
On our meeting, gentle Mary,
    You were then a very child.

Busy fingers, flitting footsteps,
    Never resting all day long;
Shy and bashful, and the sweet voice
    Ever breaking into song

Always gentle, kind and thoughtful,
    Blameless and so free from art,
'Twas no wonder one so lovely
    Found a place within my heart.

You, while life was in its spring time,
    Made the Scripture Mary's choice;
Jesus saw you, loved you, called you,
    And you listened to His voice.

Ever patient and rejoicing,
    Shielded t...

Nora Pembroke

Mariana In The South

With one black shadow at its feet,
The house thro' all the level shines,
Close-latticed to the brooding heat,
And silent in its dusty vines:
A faint-blue ridge upon the right,
An empty river-bed before,
And shallows on a distant shore,
In glaring sand and inlets bright.
But "Aye Mary," made she moan,
And "Aye Mary," night and morn,
And "Ah," she sang, "to be all alone,
To live forgotten, and love forlorn."

She, as her carol sadder grew,
From brow and bosom slowly down
Thro' rosy taper fingers drew
Her streaming curls of deepest brown
To left and right, and made appear,
Still-lighted in a secret shrine,
Her melancholy eyes divine,
The home of woe without a tear.
And "Aye Mary," was her moan,
"Madonna, sad is night and morn;"
...

Alfred Lord Tennyson

Mary.

One balmy summer night, Mary,
    Just as the risen moon
Had thrown aside her fleecy veil,
    We left the gay saloon;
And in a green, sequestered spot,
    Beneath a drooping tree,
Fond words were breathed, by you forgot,
    That still are dear to me, Mary,
        That still are dear to me.

Oh, we were happy, then, Mary--
    Time lingered on his way,
To crowd a lifetime in a night,
    Whole ages in a day!
If star and sun would set and rise
    Thus in our after years,
The world would be a paradise,
    And not a vale of tears, Mary,
        And not a vale of tears.

I live but in the past, Mary--
    The glorious day of old!
When love was hoarded in the heart,
    As misers hoard their gold:
And often like a bridal...

George Pope Morris

Mary.

How oft have I seen her upon the sea-shore,
While tearful, her face, she would hide,
In sad silence the loss of the Sailor deplore
Who from infancy call'd her his bride,

The Sailor she lov'd was a Fisherman's son,
All dangers he triumph'd to meet;
Well repaid, if a smile from his Mary he won,
As he proffer'd his spoils at her feet.

But soon from her smiles was he summon'd away,
His fortunes at sea to pursue:
And grav'd on their hearts was the sorrowful day
That witness'd their final adieu.

They spoke not, ah, no; for they felt their hearts speak
A language their tongues could not tell;
As he kiss'd off the tears that fell fast on her cheek,
As she sigh'd on his bosom, farewel.

Full oft, the sad season of absence to charm,
To the ro...

Thomas Gent

Mary Rivers

Path beside the silver waters, flashing in Octobers sun
Walk, by green and golden margins where the sister streamlets run
Twenty shining springs have vanished, full of flower, and leaf, and bird,
Since the step of Mary Rivers in your lawny dell was heard!
Twenty white-haired Junes have left us grey with frost and bleak with gale
Since the hand of her we loved so plucked the blossoms in your dale.
Twenty summers, twenty autumns, from the grand old hills have passed,
With their robes of royal colour, since we saw the darling last.

Morning comes the blessed morning! and the slow song of the sea,
Like a psalm from radiant altars, floats across a rose-red lea;
Then the fair, strong noonday blossoms, and the reaper seeks the cool
Valley of the moss and myrtle, and the glimmering wate...

Henry Kendall