Words

Adapted to a Spanish Melody.




My lady hath as soft a hand
As any queen in fairy-land;
And, hidden in her tiny boot,
As dainty and as light a foot.
                    Her foot!
Her little hand and foot!

No star that kindles in the sky
Burns brighter than my lady's eye;
And ne'er before did beauty grace
So fair a form, so sweet a face!
                    Her face!
Her gentle form and face!

My lady hath a golden heart,
Free from the dross of worldly art;
Which, in the sight of heaven above,
Is mine with all its hoarded love!
                    Her love!
Her boundless wealth of love!

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

Oh, Boatman, Haste!

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Tis Now the Promised Hour. A Serenade.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

National Anthem.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

The Sweep's Carol.

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.

My Lady Waits for Me.

Suggested by a popular German melody.




My lady waits!--'Tis now the hour
    When morn unbars her gates!--
My vessel glides beneath the tower
    Where now my lady waits.
Her signal flutters from the wall,
    Above the friendly sea!
I life but to obey her call!
    My lady waits for me.
My lady waits--for me she waits,
While morning opes her golden gates.

My lady waits!--No fairer flower
    E'er deck'd the floral grove,
Than she, the pride of hall and bower,
    The lady of my love!
The eastern hills are flecked with light,
    The land-breeze curls the sea!
By love and truth sustained, for flight,
    My lady waits for me.
My lady waits--for me she waits,
While morning opes her golden gates.

George Pope Morris

Woman.

Ah, woman!--in this world of ours,
    What boon can be compared to thee?--
How slow would drag life's weary hours,
Though man's proud brow were bound with flowers,
    And his the wealth of land and sea,
If destined to exist alone,
And ne'er call woman's heart his own!

My mother!--At that holy name,
    Within my bosom there's a gush
Of feeling, which no time can tame--
A feeling, which, for years of fame,
    I would not, could not, crush!
And sisters!--ye are dear as life;
But when I look upon my wife,
    My heart-blood gives a sudden rush,
And all my fond affections blend
In mother--sisters--wife and friend!

Yes, woman's love is free from guile,
    And pure as bright Aurora's ray;
The heart will melt before her smile,
    ...

George Pope Morris

My Lady

My Lady of all ladies!    Queen by right
    Of tender beauty; full of gentle moods;
    With eyes that look divine beatitudes,
Large eyes illumined with her spirit's light;

Lips that are lovely both by sound and sight,
    Breathing such music as the dove, which broods
    Within the dark and silence of the woods,
Croons to the mate that is her heart's delight.

Where is a line, in cloud or wave or hill,
    To match the curve which rounds her soft-flushed cheek?
            A colour, in the sky of morn or of even,
To match that flush?    Ah, let me now be still!
    If of her spirit I should strive to speak,
            I should come short, as earth comes short of heaven.

Robert Fuller Murray

Garden-Fancies - I. The Flowers Name

I.

Heres the garden she walked across,
Arm in my arm, such a short while since:
Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss
Hinders the hinges and makes them wince!
She must have reached this shrub ere she turned,
As back with that murmur the wicket swung;
For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned,
To feed and forget it the leaves among.

II.

Down this side ofthe gravel-walk
She went while her robes edge brushed the box:
And here she paused in her gracious talk
To point me a moth on the milk-white flox.
Roses, ranged in valiant row,
I will never think that she passed you by!
She loves you noble roses, I know;
But yonder, see, where the rock-plants lie!

III.

This flower she stopped at, finger on lip,
Stoope...

Robert Browning

The Ball-Room Belle. (Music by horn.)

The moon and all her starry train
    Were fading from the morning sky,
When home the ball-room belle again
Returned, with throbbing pulse and brain,
    Flushed cheek and tearful eye.

The plume that danced above her brow,
    The gem that sparkled in her zone,
The scarf of spangled leaf and bough,
Were laid aside--they mocked her now,
    When desolate and lone.

That night how many hearts she won!
    The reigning belle, she could not stir,
But, like the planets round the sun,
Her suitors followed--all but one--
    One all the world to her!

And she had lost him!--Marvel not
    That lady's eyes with tears were wet!
Though love by man is soon forgot,
It never yet was woman's lot
    To love and to forget.

George Pope Morris

Venetian Serenade.

Come, come to me, love!
    Come, love!--Arise
And shame the bright stars
    With the light of thine eyes;
Look out from thy lattice--
    Oh, lady-bird, hear!
A swan on the water--
    My gondola's near!

Come, come to me, love!
    Come, love!--My bride!
O'er crystal in moonbeams
    We'll tranquilly glide:
In the dip of the oar
    A melody flows
Sweet as the nightingale
    Sings to the rose.

Come, come to me, love!
    Come, love!--The day
Brings warder and cloister!
    Away, then--away!
Oh, haste to thy lover!
    Not yon star above
Is more true to heaven
    Then he to his love!

George Pope Morris