Thomas Bailey Aldrich

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

Thomas Bailey Aldrich Poems

41. Identity 1/1/2004
42. I'Ll Not Confer With Sorrow 1/3/2003
43. In Westminster Abbey 1/3/2003
44. Invita Minerva 1/3/2003
45. Kriss Kringle 4/8/2010
46. Latakia 4/8/2010
47. L'Eau Dormante 1/3/2003
48. Like Crusoe, Walking By The Lonely Strand 1/3/2003
49. Memory 1/3/2003
50. Miracles 1/3/2003
51. Monody On The Death Of Wendell Phillips 1/3/2003
52. No Songs In Winter 1/3/2003
53. On Reading William Watson's Sonnet Entitled The Purple East 1/3/2003
54. Outward Bound 1/3/2003
55. Palabras Cariñosas 4/8/2010
56. Palinode 1/3/2003
57. Pauline Pavlovna 1/3/2003
58. Pillared Arch And Sculptured Tower 1/3/2003
59. Piscataqua River 4/8/2010
60. Prescience 4/8/2010
61. Pursuit And Possession 1/3/2003
62. Quatrains 4/8/2010
63. Reminiscence 1/3/2003
64. Sargent's Portrait Of Edwin Booth 1/3/2003
65. Sea Longings 4/8/2010
66. Sestet 1/3/2003
67. Sleep 1/3/2003
68. Song From The Persian 1/1/2004
69. Sonnets 4/8/2010
70. Sweetheart, Sigh No More 4/8/2010
71. Tennyson 1/3/2003
72. Thalia 1/3/2003
73. The Flight Of The Goddess 4/8/2010
74. The Last Caesar 1/3/2003
75. The Letter 1/3/2003
76. The Lorelei 1/3/2003
77. The Menu 1/3/2003
78. The Poets 1/3/2003
79. The Rarity Of Genius 1/3/2003
80. The Shipman's Tale 1/3/2003
Best Poem of Thomas Bailey Aldrich

Memory

My mind lets go a thousand things
Like dates of wars and deaths of kings,
And yet recalls the very hour--
'T was noon by yonder village tower,
And on the last blue noon in May--
The wind came briskly up this way,
Crisping the brook beside the road;
Then, pausing here, set down its load
Of pine-scents, and shook listlessly
Two petals from that wild-rose tree.

Read the full of Memory

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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