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Nightwatches Post by :Jeff_Carter Category :Poems Author :James Russell Lowell Date :November 2010 Read :3390

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While the slow clock, as they were miser's gold,
Counts and recounts the mornward steps of Time,
The darkness thrills with conscience of each crime
By Death committed, daily grown more bold.
Once more the list of all my wrongs is told,
And ghostly hands stretch to me from my prime
Helpless farewells, as from an alien clime;
For each new loss redoubles all the old.
This morn 'twas May; the blossoms were astir
With southern wind; but now the boughs are bent
With snow instead of birds, and all things freeze.
How much of all my past is dumb with her,
And of my future, too, for with her went
Half of that world I ever cared to please!

(The end)
James Russell Lowell's poem: Nightwatches

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Hers all that Earth could promise or bestow,--Youth, Beauty, Love, a crown, the beckoning years,Lids never wet, unless with joyous tears,A life remote from every sordid woe,And by a nation's swelled to lordlier flow.What lurking-place, thought we, for doubts or fears,When, the day's swan, she swam along the cheersOf the Alcala, five happy months ago?The guns were shouting Io Hymen thenThat, on her birthday, now denounce her doom;The same white steeds that tossed their scorn of menTo-day as proudly drag her to the tomb.Grim jest of fate! Yet who dare call it blind,Knowing what life is, what our human-kind?(The end)James Russell

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The Maple puts her corals on in May,While loitering frosts about the lowlands cling,To be in tune with what the robins sing,Plastering new log-huts 'mid her branches gray;But when the Autumn southward turns away,Then in her veins burns most the blood of Spring.And every leaf, intensely blossoming,Makes the year's sunset pale the set of day.O Youth unprescient, were it only soWith trees you plant, and in whose shade reclined,Thinking their drifting blooms Fate's coldest snow,You carve dear names upon the faithful rind,Nor in that vernal stem the cross foreknowThat Age shall bear, silent, yet unresigned!(The end)James Russell Lowell's poem: Maple