Poems by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

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Do you blame me that I loved him?
Do you see this grain of sand
Only a little scrap of blue
Oh, children of the tropics,
The treacherous sands had caught our boat,
You can sigh o'er the sad-eyed Armenian
He stood before the sons of Heth,
Make me a grave where'er you will,
Welcome children of the Spring,
'Twas a fearful night - the tempest raved
Dedication Poem on the reception of the annex to the home for aged colored people, from the bequest of Mr. Edward T. Parker.
Do not cheer, for men are dying
I had a dream, a varied dream:
Go work in my vineyard, said the Lord,
God bless our native land,
She came from the East a fair, young bride,
The conies had their hiding-place,
"It shall be a royal mansion,
There was grief within our household
The dying words of Goethe.
Maceo dead! a thrill of sorrow
Two little children sit by my side,
My mother's kiss, my mother's kiss,
It is nothing to me, the beauty said,
Till our world, so sad and weary,
Onward to her destination,
The prison-house in which I live
Like Dives in the deeps of Hell
To comfort hearts that sigh and break,
Let me make the songs for the people,
Thank God for little children,
"Build me a house," said the Master,
We may sigh o'er the heavy burdens
They heard the South wind sighing
Life was trembling, faintly trembling
From Rome's palaces and villas
Year after year the artist wrought
"Tim Thompson, a little negro boy, was asked to dance for the amusement of some white toughs. He refused, saying he was a church member. One of the men knocked him down with a club and then danced upon his prostrate form. He then shot the boy in the
Twas a night of dreadful horror, -
Say not the age is hard and cold -
They shall see Him in the crimson flush
He stood before my heart's closed door,
Too frail to soar - a feeble thing -
"Build me a nation," said the Lord.
A rock, for ages, stern and high,
She leaned her head upon her hand