Be still,—be still!
Midnight’s arch is broken
In thy ceaseless ripples.
Dark and cold below them
Runs the troubled water,—
Only on its bosom,
Shimmering and trembling,
Doth the glinted star-shine
Sparkle and cease.
|1917||[The grass is beneath my head]||F. S. Flint|
|1793||[O were my love yon Lilac fair]||Robert Burns|
|1917||[London, my beautiful]||F. S. Flint|
|1920||[little tree]||E. E. Cummings|
|1917||[Immortal?... No,]||F. S. Flint|
|1807||[I wandered lonely as a Cloud]||William Wordsworth|
|1936||[Here dead lie we because we did not choose]||A. E. Housman|
|1920||[Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle]||A. E. Housman|
|1899||[Aye, workman, make me a dream]||Stephen Crane|