John Albee Poems

BREAK not his sweet repose—
Thou whom chance brings to this sequestered ground,
The sacred yard his ashes close,
...

It is not often Sunday draws
Me to that house where good men come;
Yet worship I, and the same cause
Which sends them there keeps me at home.
...

It is not often Sunday draws
Me to that house where good men come;
Yet worship I, and the same cause
Which sends them there keeps me at home.
...

THE WIND blows wild on Bos’n Hill,
Far off is heard the ocean’s rote;
Low overhead the gulls scream shrill,
And homeward scuds each little boat.
...

Now dandelions in the short, new grass,
Through all their rapid stages daily pass;
No bee yet visits them; each has its place,
...

If I have ever told you all my heart
Was yours, and perfect was the love it bore,
Believe it not! For in the time past o'er
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Come, Walter Savage Landor, come this way;
Step through the lintel low, with prose or verse,
Tallest of latter men; the early star
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Come, little maid, from youthful days,
And let me paint you as you stood;
Your braided hair, your coyish ways,
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Enchantress, touch no more that strain!
I know not what it may contain,
But in my breast such mood it wakes
My very spirit almost breaks.
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That thou art high above me I have found
Full oft; when all alone my heavy brain
Turns from itself to thee, my thoughts regain
...