Joseph Rodman Drake
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Joseph Rodman Drake Poems
I SAT me down upon a green bank-side, Skirting the smooth edge of a gentle river, Whose waters seemed unwillingly to glide, Like parting friends who linger while they sever;
The American Flag
WHEN Freedom from her mountain height Unfurled her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night, And set the stars of glory there.
I One happy year has fled, Sall, Since you were all my own,
ONE happy year has fled, Sall, Since you were all my own, The leaves have felt the autumn blight, The wintry storm has blown. We heeded not the cold blast
The Culprit Fay
'TIS the middle watch of a summer's night - The earth is dark, but the heavens are bright; Nought is seen in the vault on high But the moon, and the stars, and the cloudless sky,
Lines Written On Leaving New Rochelle
WHENE'ER thy wandering footstep bends Its pathway to the Hermit tree, Among its cordial band of friends, Sweet Mary! wilt thou number me?
ROAR, raging torrent! and thou, mighty river, Pour thy white foam on the valley below; Frown, ye dark mountains! and shadow for ever The deep rocky bed where the wild rapids flow.
SEE through yon cloud that rolls in wrath, One little star benignant peep, To light along their trackless path The wanderers of the stormy deep.
I Tuscara! thou art lovely now, Thy woods, that frown'd in sullen strength
To A Friend
Yet not in proud triumphal song alone, Or martial ode, or sad sepulchral dirge, There needs no voice to make our glories known; There needs no voice the warrior's soul to urge To tread the bounds of nature's stormy verge;
Extracts From Leon. An Unfinished Poem
IT is a summer evening, calm and fair, A warm, yet freshening glow is in the air; Along its bank, the cool stream wanders slow, Like parting friends that linger as they go.
To A Lady With A Withered Violet
THOUGH fate upon this faded flower His withering hand has laid, Its odour'd breath defies his power, Its sweets are undecayed.
Tennants Anster Fair
I. 'TIS the middle watch of a summer's night - The earth is dark, but the heavens are bright;
TUSCARA! thou art lovely now, Thy woods, that frown'd in sullen strength Like plumage on a giant's brow, Have bowed their massy pride at length.
Comments about Joseph Rodman Drake
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
I SAT me down upon a green bank-side,
Skirting the smooth edge of a gentle river,
Whose waters seemed unwillingly to glide,
Like parting friends who linger while they sever;
Enforced to go, yet seeming still unready,
Backward they wind their way in many a wistful eddy.
Gray o'er my head the yellow-vested willow
Ruffled its hoary top in the fresh breezes,
Glancing in light, like spray on a green billow,
Or the fine frost-work which young winter freezes;
When first his power in infant pastime trying,
Congeals sad autumn's tears on the dead ...