Near the Lake.

Near the lake where drooped the willow,
            Long time ago!--
Where the rock threw back the billow
            Brighter than snow--
Dwelt a maid, beloved and cherished
            By high and low;
But with autumn's leaf she perished,
            Long time ago!

Rock and tree and flowing water,
            Long time ago!--
Bee and bird and blossom taught her
            Love's spell to know!
While to my fond words she listened,
            Murmuring low,
Tenderly her dove-eyes glistened,
            Long time ago!

Mingled were our hearts for ever,
            Long time ago!
Can I now forget her?--Never!
            No--lost one--no!
To her grave these tears are given,
            Ever to flow:
She's the star I missed from heaven,
            Long time ago!

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

The Retort.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

O'er the Mountains.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Music.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

When Other Friends.

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.

Years Ago.

Near the banks of that lone river,
    Where the water-lilies grow,
Breathed the fairest flower that ever
    Bloomed and faded years ago.

Now we met and loved and parted,
    None on earth can ever know--
Nor how pure and gentle-hearted
    Beamed the mourned one years ago!

Like the stream with lilies laden,
    Will life's future current flow,
Till in heaven I meet the maiden
    Fondly cherished years ago.

Hearts that love like mine forget not;
    They're the same in weal or wo;
And that star of memory set not
    In the grave of years ago.

George Pope Morris

To The Evening Star.

The woods waved welcome in the breeze,
    When, many years ago,
Lured by the songs of birds and bees,
    I sought the dell below;
And there, in that secluded spot,
    Where silver streamlets roved,
Twined the green ivy round the cot
    Of her I fondly loved.

In dreams still near that porch I stand
    To listen to her vow!
Still feel the pressure of her hand
    Upon my burning brow!
And here, as in the days gone by,
    With joy I meet her yet,
And mark the love-light of her eyes,
    Fringed with its lash of jet.

O fleeting vision of the past!
    From memory glide away!
Ye were too beautiful to last,
    Too good to longer stay!
But why, attesting evening star,
    This sermon sad recall:
"THAN LOVE AND LOSE 'TI...

George Pope Morris

The Dream of Love.

I've had the heart-ache many times,
At the mere mention of a name
I've never woven in my rhymes,
Though from it inspiration came.
It is in truth a holy thing,
Life-cherished from the world apart--
A dove that never tries its wing,
But broods and nestles in the heart.

That name of melody recalls
Her gentle look and winning ways
Whose portrait hangs on memory's walls,
In the fond light of other days.
In the dream-land of Poetry,
Reclining in its leafy bowers,
Her bright eyes in the stars I see,
And her sweet semblance in the flowers.

Her artless dalliance and grace--
The joy that lighted up her brow--
The sweet expression of her face--
Her form--it stands before me now!
And I can fancy that I hear
The woodland songs she used ...

George Pope Morris

Rosabel.

I miss thee from my side, beloved,
    I miss thee from my side;
And wearily and drearily
    Flows Time's resistless tide.
The world, and all its fleeting joys,
    To me are worse than vain,
Until I clasp thee to my heart,
    Beloved one, again.

The wildwood and the forest-path,
    We used to thread of yore,
With bird and bee have flown with thee,
    And gone for ever more!
There is no music in the grove,
    No echo on the hill;
But melancholy boughs are there--
    And hushed the whip-poor-will.

I miss thee in the town, beloved,
    I miss thee in the town;
From morn I grieve till dewy eve
    Spreads wide its mantle brown.
My spirit's wings, that once could soar
    In Fancy's world of air,
Are crushed and beat...

George Pope Morris

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

My Woodland Bride.

Here upon the mountain-side
    Till now we met together;
Here I won my woodland bride,
    In flush of summer weather.
Green was then the linden-bough,
    This dear retreat that shaded;
Autumn winds are round me now,
    And the leaves have faded.

She whose heart was all my own,
    In this summer-bower,
With all pleasant things has flown,
    Sunbeam, bird, and flower!
But her memory will stay
    With me, though we're parted--
From the scene I turn away,
    Lone and broken-hearted!

George Pope Morris