Poems by Freeman Edwin Miller
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The brazen bells of laughing lands
We gentler grow by sorrow; not the breast
At eventide, when glories lie
Crowds! Crowds! Crowds!
The water-wheel goes 'round and 'round
Away, away, from the sultry ways
How sweet the brazen belfries chime
The softest beams of the stars are born in the farthest skies,
Dear songs of my country! How sweetly thy measures
O, gloomy world that rolls in weary space,
The sun comes up in the east
Oh, to be able to capture and bring
Though far apart, my darling, side by side
The gloomy hours of silence wake
'Tis not by selfish miser's greed
Good night, my little love, good-night!
Great natures live apart; the mountain gray
Had we not met, the brooding woe
He sleeps at last! The vales of rest
When man from pure perfection fell,
If Love were king,
If we but knew the weary way,
If we don't or if we do.
When from these vales I go,
Hail, glorious morning of Columbia's birth,
There is no soul of anguish or repining,
Lo, all the age is rank with wrong!
Love, thou gayest fancy-weaver,
Angelic theme of ancient lays!
Make the most of this life; where the shadow reposes
'Twas in the summer's sweet perfume,
A something, not of earth or sky,
Nature has a thousand choirs
O, gentle shade of quiet woods,
O sacred souls that grandly sing
O weak and weary world
Here, through the ages old, the desert slept
Oklahoma! Oklahoma!
Poems are holy things. Eternal Truth,
Quaff the glass, the wine is red,
We meet again beyond the barren past,
They will find in this life who are grieved with its gladness
Sing me a song, O, Wind,
Our souls are the deserts of sorrow,
Sing not of beauty's grace to me;
A singer sang in sorrow long
Somehow, someway, I can not see the light;
Alone, alone, in the twilight gray,
Spring, among her sylvan shades,
God bless the man who gave us rest
Put not trust nor tenderness to sleep,
Sweet eyes of blue! The stars by night,
Sweet fairies from the isles of song,
Like a thousan' birds o' brightness from the isles o' summer seas,
His greatness hath not left him; till the years
Let nations encircle the brows of the brave
A tender song in shadows grew,
APRIL 22, 1889.
The songs that mother used to sing!
Since Adam's first sin in the garden of song,
A song for the willow, the wild weeping willow,
God bless the brawny arms of toil,
Our dearest joys forever flow
Within this false world we may count ourselves blest,
All worthies are not sung in song.
Two infants in their cradles lie,
When Christmas comes, what pleasures spring
When fortunes frown, the woes, bedight
When thou art near, with gladdest grace
When we shall meet, I strangely know
Glad winters on the olden farm!
Wild years that are to be