Annie Adams Fields

(1834-1915 / USA)

Annie Adams Fields Poems

1. A Thousand Years In 10/19/2010
2. Still In Thy Love I Trust 10/19/2010
3. The Hour Ye Know Not 10/19/2010
4. A Dream In May 10/19/2010
5. A Falling Star 10/19/2010
6. A Far Haven 10/19/2010
7. A Memory Of Interlachen 10/19/2010
8. A Soldier's Mother 10/19/2010
9. Andante - Beethoven's Sixth Symphony 10/19/2010
10. Blue Succory In War Time 10/19/2010
11. C. T. 10/19/2010
12. Cedar Mountain 10/19/2010
13. Changing Skies 10/19/2010
14. Chrysalides 10/19/2010
15. Comatas 10/19/2010
16. Compensation 10/19/2010
17. Death, Who Art Thou? 10/19/2010
18. Endymion 10/19/2010
19. Flammatantis M’nia Mundi. 10/19/2010
20. Give 10/19/2010
21. Gretchen In Exile: To Her Lover 10/19/2010
22. Herb Yarrow 10/19/2010
23. Home 10/19/2010
24. In Memoriam: Otto Dresel 10/19/2010
25. In Mist And Dark 10/19/2010
26. Kypris 10/19/2010
27. Let Us Be Patient 10/19/2010
28. Little Guinever 10/19/2010
29. Midnight 10/19/2010
30. Midsummer Noon 10/19/2010
31. Mortality 10/19/2010
32. On The Death Of A Young Girl 10/19/2010
33. On Waking From A Dreamless Sleep 10/19/2010
34. Parted 10/19/2010
35. Perdita 10/19/2010
36. Permanence 10/19/2010
37. Preparation 10/19/2010
38. Revery Of Rosamond In Her Bower 10/19/2010
39. Ros Solis 10/19/2010
40. Sacred Places 10/19/2010
Best Poem of Annie Adams Fields

The Song-Sparrow

CAN you hear the sparrow in the lane
Singing above the graves? she said.
He knows my gladness, he knows my pain,
Though spring be over and summer be dead.

His note hath a chime all cannot hear,
And none can love him better than I;
For he sings to me when the land is drear,
And makes it cheerful even to die.

'T is beautiful on this odorous morn,
When grasses are waving in every wind,
To know my bird is not forlorn,
That summer to him is also kind, --

But sweeter, when grasses no longer stir
And every lilac-leaf is shed,
To know that my ...

Read the full of The Song-Sparrow

Song, To The Gods

“BEHOLD another singer!” Criton said,
And sneered, and in his sneering turned the leaf:
“Who reads the poets now? They are past and dead:
Give me for their vain work unrhymed relief.”
A laugh went round. Meanwhile the last ripe sheaf
Of corn was garnered, and the summer birds
Stilled their dear notes, while autumn’s voice of grief
Rang through the fields, and wept the gathered herds.
Then in despair men murmured: “Is this all,—

[Hata Bildir]