Thomas Bailey Aldrich

(November 11, 1836 – March 19, 1907 / Portsmouth, New Hampshire)

Thomas Bailey Aldrich Poems

1. Latakia 4/8/2010
2. Quatrains 4/8/2010
3. Sargent's Portrait Of Edwin Booth 1/3/2003
4. The Undiscovered Country 1/3/2003
5. Pauline Pavlovna 1/3/2003
6. The Last Caesar 1/3/2003
7. Elmwood 4/8/2010
8. Like Crusoe, Walking By The Lonely Strand 1/3/2003
9. Enamored Architect Of Airy Rhyme 1/3/2003
10. Henry Howard Brownell 1/3/2003
11. No Songs In Winter 1/3/2003
12. Reminiscence 1/3/2003
13. Pursuit And Possession 1/3/2003
14. Sonnets 4/8/2010
15. L'Eau Dormante 1/3/2003
16. Piscataqua River 4/8/2010
17. I Vex Me Not With Brooding On The Years 1/3/2003
18. Eidolons 1/3/2003
19. Sleep 1/3/2003
20. Sweetheart, Sigh No More 4/8/2010
21. England 4/8/2010
22. Kriss Kringle 4/8/2010
23. When The Sultan Goes To Ispahan 4/8/2010
24. To Hafiz 4/8/2010
25. Prescience 4/8/2010
26. Ellen Terry In The Merchant Of Venice 1/3/2003
27. The Shipman's Tale 1/3/2003
28. The Rarity Of Genius 1/3/2003
29. Outward Bound 1/3/2003
30. Pillared Arch And Sculptured Tower 1/3/2003
31. On Reading William Watson's Sonnet Entitled The Purple East 1/3/2003
32. Sea Longings 4/8/2010
33. Threnody 1/3/2003
34. The Poets 1/3/2003
35. In Westminster Abbey 1/3/2003
36. Miracles 1/3/2003
37. Thalia 1/3/2003
38. Thorwaldsen 1/3/2003
39. Fredericksburg 1/3/2003
40. The Flight Of The Goddess 4/8/2010
Best Poem of Thomas Bailey Aldrich

Identity

SOMEWHERE--in desolate wind-swept space--
In Twilight-land--in No-man's land--
Two hurrying Shapes met face to face,
And bade each other stand.

"And who are you?" cried one a-gape,
Shuddering in the gloaming light.
"I know not," said the second Shape,
"I only died last night!"

Read the full of Identity

Henry Howard Brownell

They never crowned him, never dreamed his worth,
And let him go unlaurelled to the grave:
Hereafter there are guerdons for the brave,
Roses for martyrs who wear thorns on earth,
Balms for bruised hearts that languish in the dearth
Of human love. So let the grasses wave
Above him nameless. Little did he crave
Men's praises: modestly, with kindly mirth,
Not sad nor bitter, he accepted fate --

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