Sweet Fairies From The Isles Of Song.

    Sweet fairies from the isles of song,
        Bewitching choirs from music land,
        The pleasures of your wondrous band
    Once wooed me from the ways of wrong;
    Once won my heart with fond caress
        To sacred vales of summer glees,
        Till carols fraught with lullabies
    Filled all my soul with blessedness!

    My yearnings miss those gentle sprites,
        Whose laughing lips and angel eyes
        And voices ever winsome-wise,
    Bedewed my dreams with new delights;
    For in the sad hours of my pain
        I hold them as I hold the dead,
        And trust that in the vales they tread,
    My hands shall clasp their hands again.

    From those glad meadows where they play
        'Neath lovely sun and gentle star,
        My longing soul has wandered far
    On rocky path and thorny way;
    I croon again the notes of song
        In strains they taught me years ago,
        And weep because my sorrows know
    They have been absent for so long.

    Return, O, laughing sprites of rest,
        From gentle isles and peaceful seas,
        And pour the balsamed wine of ease
    Upon the anguish of my breast!
    Till gladness in her raptures roll
        Sweet strains of music, and I gain
        Eternal joy for all the pain
    That darkens o'er my weary soul!

Freeman Edwin Miller

Freeman Edwin Miller was an American poet, journalist, and teacher, best known for his work in Oklahoma. Born on November 9, 1864, in New Jersey, Miller moved to Oklahoma in 1894, where he became a prominent figure in the literary and educational communities. He is remembered for his contributions to early Oklahoma literature, as well as his work in promoting education and journalism in the region. He passed away on July 14, 1951.

Freeman Edwin Miller

Compensation.

Freeman Edwin Miller, Simple Poetry

Spinsterhood.

Freeman Edwin Miller, Simple Poetry

When Fortunes Frown.

Freeman Edwin Miller, Simple Poetry

My Mollie, O!

Freeman Edwin Miller, Simple Poetry

English

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O, Gentle Shade Of Quiet Woods.

    O, gentle shade of quiet woods,
        Where nature dwells in leafy halls,
        I love the sacred voice that falls
    In music o'er thy solitudes!
    Within thine arms the weary heart
        Is hidden from the toils of men,
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    Among the fragrant shadows throng
        With all the riches of their truth,
        Glad echoes from the days of youth
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        And childhood fancies rock to rest.

    Again the hours of early joy
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O, Sacred Souls That Grandly Sing.

    O sacred souls that grandly sing
        The secret songs of human hearts,
        Where your wild music madly starts,
    The sorrows into raptures spring!
    Within the warbles of your chimes
        Man reads the longings of his days,
        And finds, amid your lofty lays,
    Glad music for his gloomy times.

    How sweet the mute, melodious cries
        Which only lives like yours may hear,
        Where pleasures thrill the singer's ear
    With laughing strains of lullabies!
    You know soft voices, rich with love,
        That mingle in the fields and woods,
        To bless the silent solitudes
    With carols coming from above.

    Your golden harps resound alway,
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Freeman Edwin Miller

In The Vales.

    When from these vales I go,
        That slumber on in dreams,
    O, will the summer winds dance to and fro,
        And kiss the streams
    That play where roses scatter fond perfume
    And lilies burst with bloom?

    Glad children of the spring,
        They moan their music sweet
    Where tangled grasses wave, and softly sing
        Where meadows meet,
    And wildwood shadows drooping bless
    The groves with happiness.

    Their soothing songs I hear
        Among the granite hills,
    Above the elfin warbles rich and clear
        From rippling rills,
    As if they called my soul in future days
    To wander all their ways.

    Ah, moaning winds, you seem
        To fill my musing breast
    With lullabi...

Freeman Edwin Miller

Away, Away, From The Sultry Ways.

    Away, away, from the sultry ways
        Where the pleasures fall and fade,
    To the bannered corn and the meadowed bloom
        And the forest's cooling shade!

    Afar, afar, from the rooms of care
        With the toils of life distressed,
    To the grassy hills and the fragrant slopes
        And the quiet vales of rest!

    Away from the weary, dusty town,
        Where the sorrows dim the days,
    To the sleeping lake and the silent stream
        And the wildwood's tangled ways!

    To margins wide of the woodland pools,
        Where the wild birds troll their songs,
    Where the lilies laugh and the willows wave,
        And the pleasures dance in throngs!

    The dark-eyed nymphs and the fairy elves
        In t...

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Spring And Music.

    Spring, among her sylvan shades,
    And the gladness of her glades,
        Once in dreamy hours was straying,
    Where sweet Music with her throngs
    Of glad melodies and songs
        In the happy vales was playing.

    Pan beheld the fairy maids
    As they gamboled in the shades,
        And he swore they should not sever.
    But that o'er the blooming land,
    Heart to heart and hand in hand,
        They should wander on forever.

    Thus when come the gentle days
    O'er the wildwood's tangled ways,
        There is found no gloomy weather;
    For among the leafy bowers
    And the valleys bright with flowers
        Spring and Music walk together!

Freeman Edwin Miller

Ex Anima.

    The gloomy hours of silence wake
        Remembrance and her train,
    And phantoms through the fancies chase
        The mem'ries that remain;
    And hidden in the dark embrace
        Of days that now are gone,
    I see a form, a fairy form,
        And fancy hurries on!

    I see the old familiar smile,
        I hear the tender tone,
    I greet the softness of the glance
        That cheered me when alone;
    The ruby chains of rich romance
        That bound our bosoms o'er,
    I still can know, I still can feel,
        As they were felt before.

    I name the vows, the fresh young vows,
        That we together said;
    What matters it? She can not know;
        She slumbers with the dead!
    Again the fields ...

Freeman Edwin Miller