Albert Bigelow Paine

Albert Bigelow Paine Poems

Beyond the last horizon's rim
Beyond adventure's farthest quest,
Somewhere they rise, serene and dim,
The happy, happy Hills of Rest.
...

The long, gray moss that softly swings
In solemn grandeur from the trees,
Like mournful funeral draperies,—
A brown-winged bird that never sings.
...

Albert Bigelow Paine Biography

Albert Bigelow Paine (10 July 1861 – 9 April 1937) was an American author and biographer best known for his work with Mark Twain. Paine was a member of the Pulitzer Prize Committee and wrote in several genres, including fiction, humour, and verse. Paine was born in New Bedford, Massachusetts and moved to Bentonsport, Iowa at the age of 1. He later moved to St. Louis, where he trained as a photographer, and became a dealer in photographic supplies in Fort Scott, Kansas. Paine sold out in 1895 to become a full-time writer, moving to New York. He spent most of his life in Europe, including France where he wrote two books about Joan of Arc. This work was so well received in France that he was awarded the title of Chevalier in the Légion d'honneur by the French government. Paine wrote several children's books, the first of which was published in 1898. For a time he served as an editor of St. Nicholas Magazine, a leading children's periodical of the time. He went on to write about his travelling adventures, including The Tent Dwellers, written about a trout fishing trip to Nova Scotia. His 1901 book The Great White Way written about the Arctic indirectly gave New York City's Broadway the name "Great White Way" He was the official biographer and literary executor for Mark Twain, and worked with him (and on his behalf after his death) on various projects. His work on Twain's unfinished story The Mysterious Stranger saw him combine three versions of the story into one. Paine was married to Dora and had three daughters.)

The Best Poem Of Albert Bigelow Paine

The Hills Of Rest

Beyond the last horizon's rim
Beyond adventure's farthest quest,
Somewhere they rise, serene and dim,
The happy, happy Hills of Rest.

Upon their sunlit slopes uplift
The castles we have built in Spain-
While fair amid the summer drift
Our faded gardens flower again.

Sweet hours we did not live go by
To soothing note, on scented wing;
In golden-lettered volumes lie
The songs we tried in vain to sing.

They are all there, the days of dream
That build the inner lives of men;
The silent, sacred years we deem
The might be and the might have been.

Some evening when the sky is gold
I'll follow day into the west;
Nor pause, nor heed, till I behold
The happy, happy Hills of Rest.

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