Somebody's Mother, by Mary Dow Brine
The woman was old and ragged and gray,
And be...
The woman was old and ragged and gray,
And be...
A daisied meadow lying fair under a summer sky;...
The daisies and the buttercups
Now merrily are...
The dawn had barely woke; the moon afar--
A si...
I wandered in the well-known path,
The sky wa...
I've read of the beautiful home of a King,
'T...
A city deserted! How strangely still
Falls the...
Bright are my dreams.
Not brighter are the bea...
Marshall, May 31, 1859 The meek stars are br...
Marshall, April 29, 1859 I see him now,
A ...
Far, far away, where the sun goes down,
And...
In memory of John B. Finch who dropped dead at ...
Spring Arbor, July, 1860. O! Beautiful spot ...
May 25, 1857 'T was the holy hour of twilight...
A thrilling of winds through the forest,
A mu...
In this fair stranger's eyes of grey
Thine eye...
No wild-foot Dryad haunts this leafless glade
...
Summer in England, winter in my heart:
So En...
Thou that of twilight art fashioned,
Starligh...
O sad-faced mourners, who each day are wending...
I have come to the dear old threshold,
With e...
Last eve the sunset winds upheaved
A mountain ...
It’ s a crime. They should have s...
When on the wave the breeze soft kisses flings,...
His torch and quiver down sly Eros flung,
An ...