Camp of Souls, The (by: Isabella Valancy Crawford (1850-1887)) My white canoe, like the silvery air O'er the River of Death that darkly rolls When the moons of the world are round and fair, I paddle back from the "Camp of Souls." continue reading
His Mother (by: Isabella Valancy Crawford (1850-1887)) In the first dawn she lifted from her bed The holy silver of her noble head, And listened, listened, listened for his tread. continue reading
His Sweetheart (by: Isabella Valancy Crawford (1850-1887)) Sylvia's lattices were dark Roses made them narrow. In the dawn there came a Spark, Armèd with an arrow: continue reading
His Wife And Baby (by: Isabella Valancy Crawford (1850-1887)) In the lone place of the leaves, Where they touch the hanging eaves, There sprang a spray of joyous song that sounded sweet and sturdy; And the baby in the bed continue reading
Lily Bed, The (by: Isabella Valancy Crawford (1850-1887)) His cedar paddle, scented, red, He thrust down through the lily bed; continue reading
Rose, The (by: Isabella Valancy Crawford (1850-1887)) The Rose was given to man for this: He, sudden seeing it in later years, Should swift remember Love's first lingering kiss And Grief's last lingering tears; continue reading
Said The West Wind (by: Isabella Valancy Crawford (1850-1887)) I love old earth! Why should I lift my wings, My misty wings, so high above her breast That flowers would shake no perfumes from their hearts, And waters breathe no whispers to the shores? continue reading
