Verbal Expression

by Horatio Alger, Jr.

When the clouds in the Western sky
  Flush red with the setting sun,–
When the veil of twilight falls,
  And the busy day is done,–
I sit and watch the clouds,
  With their crimson hues alight,
And ponder with anxious heart,
  Oh, where is my boy to-night?

It is just a year to-day
  Since he bade me a gay good-by,
To march where banners float,
  And the deadly missiles fly.
As I marked his martial step
  I felt my color rise
With all a mother’s pride,
  And my heart was in my eyes.

There’s a little room close by,
  Where I often used to creep
In the hush of the summer night
  To watch my boy asleep.
But he who used to rest
  Beneath the spread so white
Is far away from me now,–
  Oh, where is my boy to-night?

Perchance in the gathering night,
  With slow and weary feet,
By the light of Southern stars,
  He paces his lonely beat.
Does he think of the mother’s heart
  That will never cease to yearn,
As only a mother’s can,
  For her absent boy’s return?

Oh, where is my boy to-night?
  I cannot answer where,
But I know, wherever he is,
  He is under our Father’s care.
May He guard, and guide, and bless
  My boy, wherever he be,
And bring him back at length
  To bless and to comfort me.

May God bless all our boys
  By the camp-fire’s ruddy glow,
Or when in the deadly fight
  They front the embattled foe;
And comfort each mother’s heart,
  As she sits in the fading light,
And ponders with anxious heart–
  Oh, where is my boy to-night?

by Emily Dickinson

Some things that fly there be, –
Birds, hours, the bumble-bee:
Of these no elegy.

Some things that stay there be, –
Grief, hills, eternity:
Nor this behooveth me.

There are, that resting, rise.
Can I expound the skies?
How still the riddle lies!

by Horatio Alger, Jr.

Underneath protected branches, from the highway just aloof;
Stands the house of Grand’ther Baldwin, with its gently sloping roof.

Square of shape and solid-timbered, it was standing, I have heard,
In the days of Whig and Tory, under royal George the Third.

Many a time, I well remember, I have gazed with Childish awe
At the bullet-hole remaining in the sturdy oaken door,

Turning round half-apprehensive (recking not how time had fled)
Of the lurking, savage foeman from whose musket it was sped..

Not far off, the barn, plethoric with the autumn’s harvest spoils,
Holds the farmer’s well-earned trophies–the guerdon of his toils;

Filled the lofts with hay, sweet-scented, ravished from the meadows green,
While beneath are stalled the cattle, with their quiet, drowsy mien.

Deep and spacious are the grain-bins, brimming o’er with nature’s gold;
Here are piles of yellow pumpkins on the barn-floor loosely rolled.

Just below in deep recesses, safe from wintry frost chill,                                             
There are heaps of ruddy apples from the orchard the hill.

Many a year has Grand’ther Baldwin in the old house dwelt in peace,
As his hair each year grew whiter, he has seen his herds increase.

Sturdy sons and comely daughters, growing up from childish plays,
One by one have met life’s duties, and gone forth their several ways.

Hushed the voice of childish laughter, hushed is childhood’s merry tone,
the fireside Grand’ther Baldwin and his good wife sit alone.

Turning round half-apprehensive (recking not how time had fled)
Of the lurking savage foeman from whose musket it was sped.   

Not far off, the barn, plethoric with the autumn harvest spoils,                           
Holds the farmer’s well-earned trophies–the guerdon of his toils;

Filled the lofts with hay, sweet-scented, ravished from the meadows green,
While beneath are stalled the cattle, with their quiet drowsy mien.                          

Deep and spacious are the grain-bins, brimming o’er with nature’s gold;                      
Here are piles of yellow pumpkins on the barn-floor loosely rolled.

Just below in deep recesses, safe from wintry frost and chill,
There are heaps of ruddy apples from the orchard on the hill.

Many a year has Grand’ther Baldwin in the old house dwelt in peace,
As his hair each year grew whiter, he has seen his herds increase.

Sturdy sons and comely daughters, growing up from childish plays,
One by one have met life’s duties, and gone forth their several ways.

Hushed the voice of childish laughter, hushed is childhood’s merry tone,
By the fireside Grand’ther Baldwin and his good wife sit alone.

Yet once within the twelvemonth, when the days are short and drear,
And chill winds chant the requiem of the slowly fading year,

When the autumn work is over, and the harvest gathered in,
Once again the old house echoes to a long unwonted din.

Logs of hickory blaze and crackle in the fireplace huge anti high,
Curling wreaths of smoke mount upward to the gray November sky.

Ruddy lads and smiling lasses, just let loose from schooldom’s cares,
Patter, patter, race and clatter, up and down the great hall stairs.

All the boys shall hold high revel; all the girls shall have their way,-
That’s the law at Grand’ther Baldwin’s upon each Thanksgiving Day.

From from the parlor’s sacred precincts, hark! a madder uproar yet;
Roguish Charlie’s playing stage-coach, and the stage-coach has upset!

Joe, black-eyed and laughter-loving, Grand’ther’s specs his nose across,
Gravely winks at brother Willie, who is gayly playing horse.

Grandma’s face is fairly radiant; Grand’ther knows not how to frown,
though the children, in their frolic, turn the old house upside down.

For the boys may hold high revel, and the girls must have their way;
That’s the law at Grand’ther Baldwin’s upon each Thanksgiving Day.

But the dinner–ah! the dinner–words are feeble to portray
What a culinary triumph is achieved Thanksgiving Day!

Fairly groans the board with dainties, but the turkey rules the roast,
Aldermanic at the outset, at the last a fleshless ghost.

Then the richness of the pudding, and the flavor of the pie,
When you’ve dined at Grandma Baldwin’s you will know as well as I.

When, at length, the feast was ended, Grand’ther Baldwin bent his head,
And, amid the solemn silence, with a reverent voice, he said:–

“Now unto God, the Gracious One, we thanks and homage pay,
Who guardeth us, and guideth us, and loveth us always!

“He scatters blessings in our paths, He giveth us increase,
He crowns us with His kindnesses, and granteth us His peace.                                                

“Unto himself, our wandering feet, we pray that He may draw,
And may we strive, with faithful hearts, to keep His holy law!”

His simple words in silence died: a moment’s hush. And then
From all the listening hearts there rose a solemn-voiced Amen !

by Edgar Allan Poe
I.

  Hear the sledges with the bells–
  Silver bells!
  What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
  How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
  In their icy air of night!
  While the stars, that oversprinkle
  All the heavens, seem to twinkle
  With a crystalline delight;
  Keeping time, time, time,
  In a sort of Runic rhyme,
  To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
  From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
  Bells, bells, bells–
  From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
II.

  Hear the mellow wedding bells,
  Golden bells!
  What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
  Through the balmy air of night
  How they ring out their delight!
  From the molten golden-notes,
  And all in tune,
  What a liquid ditty floats
  To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
  On the moon!
  Oh, from out the sounding cells,
  What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
  How it swells!
  How it dwells
  On the future! how it tells
  Of the rapture that impels
  To the swinging and the ringing
  Of the bells, bells, bells,
  Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
  Bells, bells, bells–
  To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
III.

  Hear the loud alarum bells–
  Brazen bells!
  What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells!
  In the startled ear of night
  How they scream out their affright!
  Too much horrified to speak,
  They can only shriek, shriek,
  Out of tune,
  In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
  In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
  Leaping higher, higher, higher,
  With a desperate desire,
  And a resolute endeavor
  Now–now to sit or never,
  By the side of the pale-faced moon.
  Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
  What a tale their terror tells
  Of Despair!
  How they clang, and clash, and roar!
  What a horror they outpour
  On the bosom of the palpitating air!
  Yet the ear it fully knows,
  By the twanging,
  And the clanging,
  How the danger ebbs and flows;
  Yet the ear distinctly tells,
  In the jangling,
  And the wrangling,
  How the danger sinks and swells,
  By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells–
  Of the bells–
  Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
  Bells, bells, bells–
  In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
IV.

  Hear the tolling of the bells–
  Iron bells!
  What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
  In the silence of the night,
  How we shiver with affright
  At the melancholy menace of their tone!
  For every sound that floats
  From the rust within their throats
     Is a groan.
  And the people–ah, the people–
  They that dwell up in the steeple.
      All alone,
  And who toiling, toiling, toiling,
    In that muffled monotone,
  Feel a glory in so rolling
    On the human heart a stone–
  They are neither man nor woman–
  They are neither brute nor human–
      They are Ghouls:
  And their king it is who tolls;
  And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
           Rolls
  A pæan from the bells!
  And his merry bosom swells
  With the pæan of the bells!
  And he dances, and he yells;
  Keeping time, time, time,
  In a sort of Runic rhyme,
  To the pæan of the bells–
      Of the bells:
  Keeping time, time, time,
  In a sort of Runic rhyme,
    To the throbbing of the bells–
  Of the bells, bells, bells–
    To the sobbing of the bells;
  Keeping time, time, time,
    As he knells, knells, knells,
  In a happy Runic rhyme,
  To the rolling of the bells–
  Of the bells, bells, bells–
  To the tolling of the bells,
  Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
    Bells, bells, bells–
  To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

by Emily Dickinson

That I did always love,
I bring thee proof:
That till I loved
I did not love enough.

That I shall love alway,
I offer thee
That love is life,
And life hath immortality.

This, dost thou doubt, sweet?
Then have I
Nothing to show
But Calvary.

Alter? When the hills do.
Falter? When the sun
Question if his glory
Be the perfect one.

Surfeit? When the daffodil
Doth of the dew:
Even as herself, O friend!
I will of you!

by Emily Dickinson

The soul selects her own society,
Then shuts the door;
On her divine majority
Obtrude no more.

Unmoved, she notes the chariot’s pausing
At her low gate;
Unmoved, an emperor is kneeling
Upon her mat.

I’ve known her from an ample nation
Choose one;
Then close the valves of her attention
Like stone.

by Horatio Alger, Jr.

One autumn day, when hedges yet were green,
  And thick-branched trees diffused a leafy gloom,
Hard by where Avon rolls its silvery tide,
  I stood in silent thought by Shakspeare’s tomb.

O happy church, beneath whose marble floor
  His ashes lie who so enriched mankind;
The many-sided Shakespeare, rare of soul,
  And dowered with an all-embracing mind.

Through the stained windows rays of sunshine fall
  In softened glory on the chancel floor;
While I, a pilgrim from across the sea,
  stand with bare head in reverential awe.

Churches there are within whose gloomy vaults
  Repose the bones of those that once were kings;
Their power has passed, and what remains but clay?
  While in his grave our Shakspeare lives and sings.

Kings were his puppets, kingdoms but his stage,–
  Faint shadows they without his plastic art,–
He waves his wand, and lo! they live again,
  And in his world perform their mimic part.                  

Born in the purple, his imperial soul                       
  Sits crowned and sceptred in the realms of mind.
Kingdoms may fall, and crumble to decay,
  Time but confirms his empire o’er mankind.

by Edgar Allan Poe
  Thou wouldst be loved?–then let thy heart
    From its present pathway part not;
  Being everything which now thou art,
    Be nothing which thou art not.
  So with the world thy gentle ways,
    Thy grace, thy more than beauty,
  Shall be an endless theme of praise.
    And love a simple duty.

by Emily Dickinson
Elysium is as far as to
The very nearest room,
If in that room a friend await
Felicity or doom.

What fortitude the soul contains,
That it can so endure
The accent of a coming foot,
The opening of a door!