Thomas Bailey Aldrich

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

Thomas Bailey Aldrich Poems

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

A Petition

To spring belongs the violet, and the blown
Spice of the roses let the summer own.
Grant me this favor, Muse--all else withhold--
That I may not write verse when I am old.

And yet I pray you, Muse, delay the time!
Be not too ready to deny me rhyme;
And when the hour strikes, as it must, dear Muse,
I beg you very gently break the news.

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