Poems by John Milton Hay

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When I look on thee and feel how dear,
[C. K. loquitur.]
In the dim chamber whence but yesterday
Wise men I hold those rakes of old
A squad of regular infantry,
The winter wind is raving fierce and shrill,
A sentinel angel sitting high in glory
Let them say to my Lover
I wandered through a careless world
One day in the Tuileries,
A hundred times the bells of Brown
The beauty of the Northern dawns,
The Countess Jutta passed over the Rhine
Wisely a woman prefers to a lover a man who neglects her.
I love a woman tenderly,
I'll tell the story, kissing
The knightly legend of thy shield betrays
Roll on, O shining sun,
Saith the Lord, "Vengeance is mine;
Ef the way a man lights out of this world
Good luck is the gayest of all gay girls,
Down the dim west slowly fails the stricken sun,
I pray you, pardon me, Elsie,
In the dewy depths of the graveyard
My dear wife sits beside the fire
When by Jabbok the patriarch waited
Wall, no! I can't tell whar he lives,
When I behold thee, O my indolent love,
God send me tears!
How well my heart remembers
What man is there so bold that he should say,
I don't go much on religion,
'Tis love that blinds my heart and eyes, -
If Heaven would hear my prayer,
On the bluff of the Little Big-Horn,
On Tabor's height a glory came,
There was never a castle seen
Under the high unclouded sun
I stood on the top of Pitz Languard,
O grandly flowing River!
I strove, like Israel, with my youth,
As I lay at your feet that afternoon,
He stood before the Sanhedrim;
Sad is the thought of sunniest days
There are two mountains hallowed
She lived shut in by flowers and trees
When Youth's warm heart beats high, my friend,
(Paris, August, 1865.)
In the dream of the Northern poets,
Daily walked the fair and lovely
Slow flapping to the setting sun
King Saloman looked from his donjon bars,
Fytte the First: wherein it shall be shown how the Truth is too mighty a Drug for such as be of feeble temper.
Double flutes and horns resound
The song of Kilvani: fairest she
Each shining light above us
I tore this weed from the rank, dark soil
The darkest, strangest mystery
A Tale Of Earnest Effort And Human Perfidy.
The skies are blue above my head,
Not done, but near its ending,
Out of the Latin Quarter
My short and happy day is done,
To Peter by night the faithfullest came
One day the Sultan, grand and grim,
I sent my love two roses, - one
Through the long days and years
When April woke the drowsy flowers,
Let your feet not falter, your course not alter
Had we but met in other days,
In the whole wide world there was but one;
Sunrise In The Place De La Concorde. (Paris, August 1865.)
There's a happy time coming,
When violets were springing