To J. S. B.

On seeing her December 25th, 1904, after two years' travel.


Take, fair maid, these simple lines
    From my pen;
Think of strollings 'neath the pines,
    Which have been -
Long and lonesome were the days
    We were apart,
But may Love, now, have her sways, -
    Bind heart to heart!
O'er main to isle and back to land
    Have I been;
Beheld on either hand
    A maiden queen:
But none with captivating charms
    Like thine;
None to nestle in her arms,
    Love of mine!
Charms unto thee God gave
    To banish strife;
To glorify and save
    One sweet life -
Take this, dear, before we part
    From this bliss;
'Tis but love flowing from my heart,
    Thine to kiss!

Edward Smyth Jones

Edward Smyth Jones was an African American poet born in Natchez, Mississippi, best known for his poem "A Song of Thanks". He faced significant challenges throughout his life, including racial prejudice and economic hardship. His work often reflects his struggles and aspirations, particularly focusing on themes of resilience, hope, and gratitude. Despite his relatively obscure status in literary circles, Jones's contributions are recognized for their emotional depth and historical significance. He passed away in 1968.

Edward Smyth Jones

A Bouquet

Edward Smyth Jones, Simple Poetry

A Song Of Thanks

Edward Smyth Jones, Simple Poetry

A Tribute To Dunbar

Edward Smyth Jones, Simple Poetry

An Ode To The Soldiers' And Sailors' Monument

Edward Smyth Jones, Simple Poetry

English

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A Bouquet

A blossom pink, a blossom blue,
    Make all there is in love so true.
'Tis fit, methinks, my heart to move,
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An Old Man To His Sleeping Young Bride

As when the old moon lighted by the tender
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Can blooming June be fond of bleak December?
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That crimson mou...

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland, 1803 V. To A Highland Girl - At Inversneyde, Upon Loch Lomond

Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower
Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
Twice seven consenting years have shed
Their utmost bounty on thy head:
And these grey rocks; that household lawn;
Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn;
This fall of water that doth make
A murmur near the silent lake;
This little bay; a quiet road
That holds in shelter thy Abode,
In truth together do ye seem
Like something fashioned in a dream;
Such Forms as from their covert peep
When earthly cares are laid asleep!
But, O fair Creature! in the light
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With ...

William Wordsworth

To A Lady Who Presented To The Author A Lock Of Hair Braided With His Own, And Appointed A Night In December To Meet Him In The Garden. [1]

These locks, which fondly thus entwine,
In firmer chains our hearts confine,
Than all th' unmeaning protestations
Which swell with nonsense, love orations.
Our love is fix'd, I think we've prov'd it;
Nor time, nor place, nor art have mov'd it;
Then wherefore should we sigh and whine,
With groundless jealousy repine;
With silly whims, and fancies frantic,
Merely to make our love romantic?
Why should you weep, like Lydia Languish,
And fret with self-created anguish?
Or doom the lover you have chosen,
On winter nights to sigh half frozen;
In leafless shades, to sue for pardon,
Only because the scene's a garden?
For gardens seem, by one consent,
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Since Juliet first declar'd her passion)
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To Some Ladies

What though while the wonders of nature exploring,
I cannot your light, mazy footsteps attend;
Nor listen to accents, that almost adoring,
Bless Cynthia's face, the enthusiasts friend:

Yet over the steep, whence the mountain stream rushes,
With you, kindest friends, in idea I rove;
Mark the clear tumbling crystal, its passionate gushes,
Its spray that the wild flower kindly bedews.

Why linger you so, the wild labyrinth strolling?
Why breathless, unable your bliss to declare?
Ah! you list to the nightingales tender condoling,
Responsive to sylphs, in the moon beamy air.

'Tis morn, and the flowers with dew are yet drooping,
I see you are treading the verge of the sea:
And now! ah, I see it, you just now are stooping
To pick up the keep-sake intend...

John Keats

To A Highland Girl (At Inversneyde, Upon Loch Lomond)

Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower
Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
Twice seven consenting years have shed
Their utmost bounty on thy head:
And these grey rocks; that household lawn;
Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn;
This fall of water that doth make
A murmur near the silent lake;
This little bay; a quiet road
That holds in shelter thy Abode
In truth together do ye seem
Like something fashioned in a dream;
Such Forms as from their covert peep
When earthly cares are laid asleep!
But, O fair Creature! in the light
Of common day, so heavenly bright,
I bless Thee, Vision as thou art,
I bless thee with a human heart;
God shield thee to thy latest years!
Thee, neither know I, nor thy peers;
And yet my eyes are filled with tears.

...

William Wordsworth