Anne Whitney

1821-1915

 

Stoop low, dear Night, a little star-breeze wakes

by Anne Whitney

Stoop low, dear Night, a little star-breeze wakes
The solemn pines. -- Child-love doth come and pass,
And when 'tis gone, how beautiful it was
We know. Thou art like this dear Night, that shakes
Her long hair down, and sits star-throned in lakes
And loving seas,
he said -- forgive the boy!
And you are gold-tressed Day, the sun-flower's joy,
Each each pursues -- but neither overtakes.

O dull astronomer, do not these two
Mingle at dawn and even with lovely grace,
Till one for joy dies in the long embrace?

Experimental science is sole true;
And like those twilights 'mid the arctic snows,
The dusk and fair blent sweet on cheeks and brows.

Source:

Poems
Copyright 1859
346 & 348 Broadway
D. Appleton & Company
New York
 

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I could be content ... - John KeatsOh! how I love, on a fair summer's eve, ... - John KeatsTo George Sand: A Desire - Elizabeth Barrett BrowningOn A Picture Of Leander - John KeatsOn A Dream - John KeatsTo A Sleeping Child - Thomas HoodWork (What are we set on earth for? ...) - Elizabeth Barrett BrowningWritten On The Day That Mr. Leigh Hunt Left Prison - John KeatsWritten In The Cottage Where Burns Was Born - John KeatsThe Soul's Expression - Elizabeth Barrett BrowningAddressed To Haydon - John KeatsIn the still hours, a stiller strength was born - Anne WhitneyThe Human Seasons - John KeatsPatience Taught By Nature - Elizabeth Barrett BrowningThe world is with me, and its many cares... - Thomas HoodOn Fame (How fever'd is the man, who cannot look ...) - John KeatsAfter dark vapors have oppress'd our plains ... - John KeatsIrreparableness - Elizabeth Barrett BrowningNo slight caprice rules thee. -- Who sounds one note... - Anne WhitneyCheerfulness Taught By Reason - Elizabeth Barrett BrowningSo reed-like fragile, in the world's whirl nought... - Anne WhitneyTo Haydon - John KeatsWithin my life another life runs deep, - Anne WhitneyA Thought For A Lonely Death-Bed - Elizabeth Barrett BrowningHow many bards gild the lapses of time! - John KeatsTo _. 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