tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58739443484169383732011-11-27T17:43:31.427-08:00Usually quite sweet.Clippiquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07767613794421933597noreply@blogger.comBlogger311100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5873944348416938373.post-16967907893007834812008-09-05T08:09:00.001-07:002008-09-05T08:09:34.855-07:00

1895In the silence of the night,If I waken with affrightFrom a dream that's full of terror and annoy,There's a sound that fills my heartWith a melody of artFull of beauty, full of pleasure, full of joy.'Tis the steady "tick, tick, tock,"Of my sturdy little clock,As it sits across the room upon a shelf,And it says: "Don't be afraid,For I've closely by you staidWhile you were off in the land of

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1895My dear little sweetheart, fond and true,Thinking of laddie so far away,For laddie is all this world to you—Your dream by night and your hope by day.What though your swain be of humble birth;The love in your heart his praise will sing.Dear little brown eyes, you know his worth;Affection enthrones him as your king.Brave little lassie, whose soft words cheerWhen the world is dark and skins

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1895If I were but her violin,Pressed lovingly beneath her chin,Ah, what ecstatic bliss!To feel the throbbing of each veinAs from sweet music's tangled skeinCome sounds as soft as summer's rainWhen storm clouds gently kiss!If I were but her violin,Her wooing, cooing violin!If I were but her violin,With envied place beneath her chin,How sweet would be the noteI'd yield to her caressing hands—The

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1895Oh, the old trundle bed where I slept when a boy!What canopied king might not covet the joy!The glory and peace of that slumber of mine,Like a long, gracious rest in the bosom divine;The quaint, homely couch, hidden close from the light,But daintily drawn from its hiding place at night.Oh, a nest of delight, from the foot to the head,Was the queer little, dear little old trundle bed!Oh, the

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1895How a Girl Turned the Edge of a Joke to the Benefit of the Poor.There seems to be no limit to a woman's self sacrifice when she once takes a charitable object to heart. This is the story of a girl who sold her diary, and you have to be a woman to realize all that that means.It was on shipboard, and it happened on the way over from Liverpool. The girl was a millionaire's daughter, and in

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1895Sweet singer of the sweet sad days,Thy requiem for the summer deadRings clearly through the golden haze,While o'er thy headThe sere leaves, with a gentle sigh,Float softly down to earth to die —Gold, brown and red.And is thy song all sadness? Nay,Thy little heart full well doth knowThat where the sere leaf breaks awayThe bud doth showSure promise of another spring,When thy glad song with love

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1895The infant soul made up of imagesIs like a lake, itself almost unseen,But holding pictured in its "pure serene"The sky above and the surrounding trees,Till o'er the surface creeps a rising breezeAnd slowly ruffles into silver sheenThose depths of azure fringed with branching green,A flame that follows on a form that flees.As intermingled with the flow of beingIt loses sight in gaining

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1895From some bright cloudlet dropping,From branch to blossom hopping,Then drinking from a small brown stoneThat stood aloneAmid the brook; then singing,Upspringing,It soared. My bird had flown.A glimpse of beauty onlyThat left the glen more lonely?Nay, truly, for its song and flightMade earth more bright.If men were less regretful,And fretful,Would life yield less delight?— William Cantor.

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1895Because I hold it sinful to despondAnd will not let the bitterness of lifeBlind me with burning tears, but look beyondIts tumults and its strife;Because I lift my head above the mist,Where the sun shines and the broad breezes blow,By every ray and every raindrop kissedThat God's love cloth bestow,Think you I find no bitterness at all?No burden to be borne like Christian's pack?Think you there

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1895Since she went homeLonger the evening shadows linger here,The winter days fill so much of the year,And even summer winds are chill and drearSince she went home.Since she went homeThe robin's note has touched a minor strain.The old glad songs breathe a sad refrain,And laughter sobs with hidden, bitter painSince she went home.Since she went homeHow still the empty rooms her presence blessed!

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1895Myriad clouds, in swift succession blown,Hang from the heavens, ponderous and gray.In desolation lies the house of day,Its azure architecture overthrown.A wizard choir, the trees in terror moan,And whilst the winds their wild, weird music play,Earth from her ancient orbit seems to stray —A frightened thing, bewildered and alone.Then, like a swarm of white bees in theair, the innumerable

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1895Bold sailors yet, through frozen seas,Attempt to reach the northern pole.They quit their friends and home and easeTo conquer the unconquered goal.A less heroic errantry —Silvia! It is my chief endeavorTo reach your heart, though round it I,For all I know, may cruise forever.I've now been held these winters two,Bound in the ice of your disdain.Could but I break a passage throughI'd not ask to

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1895Her eyes are made for loving; her lips are made for kissing;Upon her cheeks the roses go playing hide and seek.Her form is like a seraph's; no angel grace is missing.To have her and to hold her I am her servant meek.She loves me to distraction; her every action shows it.She comes without the asking to sit upon my knee,Nor cares a continental if everybody knows it,Because she calls me "papa,"

Clippiquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07767613794421933597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5873944348416938373.post-46491028735880835232008-06-13T18:49:00.002-07:002008-06-13T18:50:13.702-07:00

1895Red as thy heroes' blood thine orient be!Blue as their azure garb thy cloudless skies!Their silv'ry swords as white, the stars that riseTo crown thine eye with quivering ecstasy!Our banner's hues, the colors of the free,Live in thy glories, clothe thee with their guise.Faith, Hope and Love (the soul's fair trinity),Lend thy soft vesture, heav'n's immortal dyes!Who rants of creeds? Thy charter

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1895No novels now, but novelettes,Cigars give place to cigarettes,Titanic "suns" to twinkling "stars,"Pictures to sketches, "pomes" to "pars,"Bonnets to things like housemaids' caps,Banquets to tidbits, books to scraps,And three volume novels to "short stories,"Gibbon-like length and epic glories,Like mammoths and cave bears, are gone,Earth brings not back the mastodon.The microbe takes its place

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1895What though the Sword, incarnadined and crowned,Yoke to its car the servile feet of Fate;What though the sophist Senate's pompous prateEngross the hour and shake the world with sound.Their carnal conquests can at best but foundSome tinsel towering transitory stateOn force or fraud, whose summits, soon or late,Fresh fraud or force will level with the ground.It is the silent, eremitic mind,

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1895Who could dispense with that garden fair,The lotus flowered garden of dreams?Never a life is too homely or bareTo cherish a fragrant spot somewhere,Budding to open in promises rareIn the magical gardens of dreams.How could we live and not yield to despair,Bereft of the garden of dreams?The fever of living, the pangs of care,The hopes deferred all the sorrows we bearForgotten are charmed to

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1895How shall I love you? I dream all day,Dear, of a tenderer, sweeter way.Songs that I sing to you, words that I say,Prayers that are voiceless on lips that would pray —These may not tell of the love of my life.How shall I love you, my sweetheart, my wife?How shall I love you? Love is the breadOf life to a woman — the white and the redOf all the world's roses, the light that is shedOn all the

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1895Your strictures are unmerited;Our follies are inherited;Directly from our gram'pas they all cameOur defects have been transmitted,And we should be acquittedOf all responsibility and blame.We are not depraved beginners,But hereditary sinners,For our fathers never acted as they should'Tis the folly of our gram'pasThat continually hampers —What a pity that our gram'pas wern't goodYes, we'd all

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1895Dildido, dildido,O love, O love,I feel thy rage rumble below and above!In summer time I see a face,Trop belle pour moi, helas, helas!Like to a stoned horse was her pace.Was ever a young man so dismayed?Her eyes, like wax torches, did make me afraid!Trop belle pour moi, voila trepas.Thy beauty, my love, exceedeth supposes;Thy hair is a nettle for the nicest roses.Mon dieu, aide moi!That I with

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1895"Did you ever hear anything as mushy as that?" asked the man at the minstrel show. He referred to a song about "papa" and "dear mamma" and "sweet little child" that was being done by a man with a soft, girlish voice.He didn't like it at all, but the house demanded an encore, and a woman just in front of him had a handkerchief to her eyes."That's what people want," said the man who sat beside

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1895Could I but have my dear one back againFrom the vastness of the great west unknown,How would it ease my poor heart's silent painAs I sit here at even all alone!That he travels wide makes me more afraidWho shall his wayward heart and footsteps guide,For him softer the way my love had made,So feels my poor heart while he wanders wide.Cold was the night he left my sanctum warm,A night of wintry

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1895Across the vale the floods are out,The floods are out with rush and rout;Across the world the floods are out,The land is in the sea,And round the oak tree that displaysThe bronze bright head in wintry daysThe roaring current swings and sways,Shouting his song of glee.And landsmen now are watermen,The robin, as the water henThat makes her nest in reed and fen,The robin's gone afloat.The wind

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1895What flower shall be mine? Oh, how can I chooseFrom the myriads that cover the plain?Shall it be the wild rose that blooms in the woodOr the buttercup down in the lane?Fair are the lilies so stately and tallThat grow in the deep meadow grass,And white are the daisies with bright starry eyesThat greet me whenever I pass.Forgetmenots, too, so tiny and bright,Reflecting the blue of the sky,And

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1895This Was the Trouble About Jim and Myra and the Gloomy Girl In Red."The world is hollow," remarked the girl in red."It is," gloomily assented the girl whose new gown does not fit, "but I don't see how you ever found it out.""By accident, dear. It happened the day after the cards were sent out. I had a note from Dan saying that he must see me once more before I was Jim's wife. Of course I

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1895PlagiarizedThe young couple stood on the bank opposite the Gadfly contemplating that small boathouse with something less than a feeling of ownership than they had hitherto experienced. A fiery little steamer went up the river, and the waves, taking advantage of the confusion, ran and kissed the green bank and were off again before the green bank had time to protest. From the top deck of the

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1875BY M. S. P.THERE was once a small child who would never say please,I believe, if you even went down on your knees.But, her arms on the table, would sit at her ease,And call out to her mother in words such as these:"I want some potatoes!" "Give me some peas!""Hand me the butter!" "Cut me some cheese!"So the fairies, this very rude daughter to tease,Once blew her away in a powerful breeze,Over

Clippiquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07767613794421933597noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5873944348416938373.post-31525120476737235512008-05-13T12:12:00.001-07:002008-05-13T12:14:32.113-07:00

1875(Translated from the German of W. HEY by THEODORE FAY.)"GOOD-DAY, Mr. Ox! Of what do you think?In deep scientific reflection you sink.""Thanks, thanks!" the ox answered, as chewing he sat;"You do me much honor! I 'm not wise as that.To men I leave science and study and thinking;My business is pulling and eating and drinking.They may toil to distinguish the false from the true;But I am

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1875BY EDWARD W. CADY.Did you ever catch a trout? It is very exciting sport, especially the first time.There are two kinds of trout, brook-trout and lake-trout. The name indicates where they are found; but the lake-trout is very much larger, and not nearly so handsome as the other. The brook-trout varies in size from about as long as your hand to a foot or more, and is of a reddish-gray color and

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MILMY-MELMYBy RACHEL POMEROY.MANY hundred years ago,People say,Lived in busy RhinelandGiants gay;Folks of mighty stature,Made so tall,They would hit the sky in walking —Stars and all.When one stretched him on a mountFor a nap,Why, the clouds would fit himLike a cap;In the valley underSprawled his toes;How he could get out of bedNo one knows!Did he snore a little loudish(Do you wonder)?People only

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1895The ragged rail fence just loafed along,In a leisurely, zigzag line,Down the side of the hill and wandered outTo the murmuring slopes of pine.And I had only to climb the fence,Or go through a crumbling gap,To let gold spill down out of my armsAnd overflow from my lap.And the fence never cared a single bit,For all it was there to guard,And I might have doubled my golden spoilsUntroubled of

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