Grace Greenwood

(1823-1904 / the USA)

Grace Greenwood Poems

1. Love-Letter To A Friend 10/14/2010
2. Lumination For Victories In Mexico 10/14/2010
3. Nina To Hervey 10/14/2010
4. Proem 10/14/2010
5. Putnam 10/14/2010
6. Pygmalion 10/14/2010
7. Reconciliation 10/14/2010
8. Siri, The Swimmer — Miss Bremer 10/14/2010
9. Song Ii 10/14/2010
10. Song I 10/14/2010
11. Song Iii 10/14/2010
12. Spirit Longings 10/14/2010
13. The Army Of Reform 10/14/2010
14. The First Doubt 10/14/2010
15. The Flight Of Genius 10/14/2010
16. The Gold-Seeker 10/14/2010
17. A Fragment 10/14/2010
18. A Lay 10/14/2010
19. An Offering To Anna 10/14/2010
20. Ariadne 10/14/2010
21. Arnold De Winkelried 10/14/2010
22. Constance 10/14/2010
23. Darkened Hours 10/14/2010
24. The Last Gift 10/14/2010
25. The Leap From The Long Bridge 10/14/2010
26. The Lost Heart 10/14/2010
27. The May Morning 10/14/2010
28. The Midnight Vigil 10/14/2010
29. The Poet Of To-Day 10/14/2010
30. The Poet’s Home 10/14/2010
31. The Restored 10/14/2010
32. The Story Of A Life 10/14/2010
33. The Wife’s Appeal 10/14/2010
34. Therese 10/14/2010
35. Emilie Plater 10/14/2010
36. Fanny Forester 10/14/2010
37. Hervey To Nina — Miss Bremer 10/14/2010
38. I Never Will Grow Old 10/14/2010
39. Invocation To Mother Earth 10/14/2010
40. L’envoi 10/14/2010

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Best Poem of Grace Greenwood

War-Song Of The Magyars

A BATTLE-SHOUT for Hungary
Once more shall wake the day, —
A joyful summons to the brave,
To rally for the fray;
To gird her round, and, with their swords,
Make lightning on her way!

The shout that each bold Magyar heart
With war's fierce rapture fills,
The cry that in the traitor's veins
The coward current chills, —
Let it ring up from the valleys
And roll along the hills!

Let it sound amid the mountain land,
That mighty gathering cry, —
Go up from steep, and crag, and cliff,
Clear, terrible, and high,
Till the vultures ...

Read the full of War-Song Of The Magyars

Ariadne

DAUGHTER Of Crete, how one brief hour,
E'en in thy young love's early morn,
Sends storm and darkness o'er thy bower, —
O doomed, O desolate, O lorn!
The breast which pillowed thy fair head
Rejects its burden, and the eye
Which looked its love so earnestly
Its last cold glance hath on thee shed;
The arms which were thy living zone,

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