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Helen Hoyt Poems
Little park that I pass through, I carry off a piece of you Every morning hurrying down To my work-day in the town;
Rain At Night
Are you awake? Do you hear the rain? How rushingly it strikes upon the ground, And on the roof, and the wet window-pane!
The Lover Sings Of A Garden
Oh, beautiful are the flowers of your garden, The flowers of your garden are fair: Blue flowers of your eyes
Since I Have Felt The Sense Of Death
Since I have felt the sense of death, Since I have borne its dread, its fear— Oh, how my life has grown more dear
I have heard them in the night— The cry of their fear, Because there is no light, Because they do not hear
Comments about Helen Hoyt
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
Little park that I pass through,
I carry off a piece of you
Every morning hurrying down
To my work-day in the town;
Carry you for country there
To make the city ways more fair.
I take your trees,
And your breeze,
Some of your shade, some of your sky,
Some of your calm as I go by;
Your flowers to trim
The pavements grim;
Your space for room in the jostled street
And grass for carpet to my feet.
Your fountains take and sweet bird calls
To sing me from my office walls.
All that I can see