Thomas Bailey Aldrich

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

Thomas Bailey Aldrich Poems

1. A Dedication 1/3/2003
2. A Mood 1/3/2003
3. A Petition 1/3/2003
4. A Shadow Of The Night 4/8/2010
5. A Touch Of Nature 1/3/2003
6. Act V 1/3/2003
7. After The Rain 1/1/2004
8. Alec Yeaton's Son 1/3/2003
9. An Alpine Picture 1/3/2003
10. An Elective Course 1/3/2003
11. An Ode 4/8/2010
12. Andromeda 1/3/2003
13. Appreciation 4/8/2010
14. At A Reading 1/3/2003
15. At Bay Ridge, Long Island 1/3/2003
16. At Stratford-Upon-Avon 1/3/2003
17. At The Funeral Of A Minor Poet 1/3/2003
18. Baby Bell 4/8/2010
19. Batuschka 1/3/2003
20. Before The Rain 1/1/2004
21. Books And Seasons 1/3/2003
22. Broken Music 4/8/2010
23. By The Potomac 1/3/2003
24. Corydon 1/3/2003
25. Destiny 4/8/2010
26. Echo Song 1/3/2003
27. Egypt 1/3/2003
28. Eidolons 1/3/2003
29. Ellen Terry In The Merchant Of Venice 1/3/2003
30. Elmwood 4/8/2010
31. Enamored Architect Of Airy Rhyme 1/3/2003
32. England 4/8/2010
33. Even This Will Pass Away 1/3/2003
34. Fannie 4/8/2010
35. Fredericksburg 1/3/2003
36. Guilielmus Rex 1/3/2003
37. Henry Howard Brownell 1/3/2003
38. Heredity 4/8/2010
39. Hesperides 4/8/2010
40. I Vex Me Not With Brooding On The Years 1/3/2003
Best Poem of Thomas Bailey Aldrich

Andromeda

The smooth-worn coin and threadbare classic phrase
Of Grecian myths that did beguile my youth,
Beguile me not as in the olden days:
I think more grief and beauty dwell with truth.
Andromeda, in fetters by the sea,
Star-pale with anguish till young Perseus came,
Less moves me with her suffering than she,
The slim girl figure fettered to dark shame,
That nightly haunts the park, there, like a shade,
Trailing her wretchedness from street to street.
See where she passes -- neither wife nor maid;
How all mere fiction crumbles at her feet!
Here is ...

Read the full of Andromeda

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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