The sun was slumbering in the West,
My daily labors past;
On Anna’s soft and gentle breast
My head reclined at last;
The darkness closed around, so dear
To fond congenial souls,
And thus she murmur’d at my ear,
“My love, we’re out of coals!

“That Mister Bond has call’d again,
Insisting on his rent;
And all the Todds are coming up
To see us, out of Kent —
I quite forgot to tell you John
Has had a tipsy fall —
I’m sure there’s something going on
WIth that vile Mary Hall!

“Miss Bell has bought the sweetest silk,
And I have bought the rest —
Of course, if we go out of town,
Southend will be the best.
I really think the Jones’s house
Would be the thing for us;
I think I told you Mrs. Pope
Had parted with her hus —

“Cook , by the way, came up today,
To bid me suit myself —
And what d’ye think? The rats have gnaw’d
The victuals on the shelf,
And, lord! there’s such a letter come,
Inviting you to fight!
Of course you don’t intend to go —
God bless you, dear, good night!”

— Thomas Hood, The Sun Was Slumbering In The West

Hot sun, cool fire, tempered with sweet air,
Black shade, fair nurse, shadow my white hair.
Shine, sun; burn, fire; breathe, air, and ease me;
Black shade, fair nurse, shroud me and please me.
Shadow, my sweet nurse, keep me from burning;
Make not my glad cause cause of mourning.
Let not my beauty’s fire
Inflame unstaid desire,
Nor pierce any bright eye
That wandereth lightly.

— George Peele, Hot Sun, Cool Fire

Don’t be downcast, soon the night will come,
When we can see the cool moon laughing in secret
Over the faint countryside,
And we rest, hand in hand.

Don’t be downcast, the time will soon come
When we can have rest. Our small crosses will stand
On the bright edge of the road together,
And rain fall, and snow fall,
And the winds come and go.

— Hermann Hesse, On A Journey

I woke before the morning, I was happy all the day,
I never said an ugly word, but smiled and stuck to play.

And now at last the sun is going down behind the wood,
And I am very happy, for I know that I’ve been good.

My bed is waiting cool and fresh, with linen smooth and fair,
And I must be off to sleepsin-by, and not forget my prayer.

I know that, till to-morrow I shall see the sun arise,
No ugly dream shall fright my mind, no ugly sight my eyes.

But slumber hold me tightly till I waken in the dawn,
And hear the thrushes singing in the lilacs round the lawn.

— Robert Louis Stevenson, A Good Boy

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, — I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

— Elizabeth Barrett Browning, How Do I Love Thee?

He drew a straight line
Across the dirt floor:
Within, it was death-still–
Without, was a roar
And a scream of the trumpets:
Within, was a Word–
And a line drawn clean
By the sweep of a sword.
No help was coming, now–
That hope was done.
No more the free air,
no more the sun
Bright on the blue leagues
Of buffalo-clover.
Travis drew a line
And they all crossed over.
Travis had a wife at home,
Travis was young;
Travis had a little boy
Whose tight arms clung,
But Travis saw a far light
Shining before:
Travis drew a sword-cut
Across the dirt floor.

And now the old fort stands
Placid and dim,
Blinking and dreaming
Of them and of him;
And now past the Plaza
Other tides roar,
since Travis wrote “Valor”
Across the sand floor,
And the guns they will rust,
And the captains will go,
And an end come at last
To the wars that we know,
But as long as there travails
A Spirit in man,
In a war that was ancient
Before Time began,
Here will the brave come
To read a high Word–
Cut clean in the dust
By the stroke of a sword.

— Karle Wilson Baker, Within the Alamo

What needs my Shakespeare for his honored bones
The labor of an age in piled stones?
Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid
Under a star-ypointing pyramid?
Dear son of Memory, great heir of Fame,
What need’st thou such weak witness of thy name?
Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Hast built thy self a livelong monument.
For whilst, to th’ shame of slow-endeavoring art,
Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book
Those Delphic lines with deep impression took,
Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,
Dost make us marble with too much conceiving,
And so sepulchred in such pomp dost lie
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.

— John Milton, An Epitaph On The Admirable Dramatic Poet W. Shakespeare