Silas Weir Mitchell Poems

Ho, joyous friend with beard of brown!
A half-hour back 't was gray;
A half-hour back you wore a frown,
But now the world looks gay.
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I

WHAT gracious nunnery of grief is here!
One woman garbed in sorrow's every mood;
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I SAW thy beauty in its high estate
Of perfect empire, where at set of sun
In the cool twilight of thy lucent leaves
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HE sang of brooks, and trees, and flowers,
Of mountain tarns, of wood-wild bowers,
The wisdom of the starry skies,
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A Poem Read October Sixteenth, Mdcccxcvi, At The Commemoration Of The Fiftieth Anniversary Of The First
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AT twilight Azescohos standeth
With domes that are builded of color:
Its deep-wrinkled strata and boulders,
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Ran a murmur low or loud,
As he rode with lifted vizor,
Smiling on the anxious crowd.
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THERE was none so tall as this giant bold.
He had a name that could not be told,
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'I, Moonkir, the angel, am come
To count of his good deeds the sum,
For this mortal death-stricken and dumb.'
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RIPE hours there be that do anticipate
The heritage of death, and bid us see,
As from the vantage of eternity,
...