In the season of white wild roses

The azure lake is argent now Beneath the pale moonshine: I seek a sign of hope in heaven: Fair Polestar! thou are mine. A thousand other beacons blaze; I follow thee alone...

Let the children play And sit like flowers upon thy grave And crown with flowers,—that hardly have A briefer blooming-tide than they.

This little Collection differs, it is believed, from others in the attempt made to include in it all the best original lyrical pieces and songs in our language, by writers not living, and none besides the best. The Editor will regard as …

When once the mind has raised itself to grasp and to delight in excellence, those who love most will be found to love most wisely.

Time's corrosive dewdrop eats The giant warrior to a crust Of earth in earth and rust in rust.

Sleep puts out silent fingers, And leads me back to the roar Of the dead salt sea that vomits Wrecks of the past ashore.