i am 

SPECIALIZING IN PHOTOGRAPHIC ART

Variations

I Thought I Was Not Alone
    By Walt Whitman

I thought I was not alone, walking here by the shore,
But the one I thought was with me, as now I walk by the shore,
As I lean and look through the glimmering light - that one has utterly disappeared,
And those appear that perplex me.


A Guinevere.

By Madison Julius Cawein



Sullen gold down all the sky,
In the roses sultry musk;
Nightingales hid in the dusk
Yonder sob and sigh.

You are here; and I could weep,
Weep for joy and suffering.
"Where is he?" He'd have me sing; -
There he sits asleep.

Think not of him! he is dead
For the moment to us twain;
He were dead but for this pain
Drumming in my head.

"Am I happy?" Ask the fire
When it bursts its bounds and thrills
Some mad hours as it wills
If those hours tire.

He had gold. As for the rest -
Well you know how they were set,
Saying that I must forget,
And 'twas for the best.

I forget! but let it go! -
Kiss me as you did of old.
There! your kisses are not cold!
Can you love me so,

Knowing what I am to him
Sitting in his gouty chair
On the breezy terrace where
Amber fire-flies swim?

"Yes?" - Your cheek a tear-drop wets,
But your kisses on my lip
Fall as warm as bees that sip
Sweets from violets.

See! the moon has risen white
As this bursten lily here
Rocking on the dusky mere
Like a silent light.

Let us walk. We soon must part -
All too soon! but he may miss!
Give me but another kiss;
It will heat my heart

And the bitter winter there.
So; we part, my Launcelot,
My true knight! and am I not
Your true Guinevere?

Oft they parted thus they tell
In that mystical romance.
Were they placed, think you, perchance,
For such love in hell?

No! it can not, can not be!
Love is God and God is love,
And they live and love above,
Guinevere and he!

I must go now. See! there fell,
Molten into purple light,
One wild star. Kiss me good-night;
And, once more, farewell!


To The Queen Of My Heart.

By Percy Bysshe Shelley



Shall we roam, my love,
To the twilight grove,
When the moon is rising bright;
Oh, I'll whisper there,
In the cool night-air,
What I dare not in broad daylight!

I'll tell thee a part
Of the thoughts that start
To being when thou art nigh;
And thy beauty, more bright
Than the stars' soft light,
Shall seem as a weft from the sky.

When the pale moonbeam
On tower and stream
Sheds a flood of silver sheen,
How I love to gaze
As the cold ray strays
O'er thy face, my heart's throned queen!

Wilt thou roam with me
To the restless sea,
And linger upon the steep,
And list to the flow
Of the waves below
How they toss and roar and leap?

Those boiling waves,
And the storm that raves
At night o'er their foaming crest,
Resemble the strife
That, from earliest life,
The passions have waged in my breast.

Oh, come then, and rove
To the sea or the grove,
When the moon is rising bright;
And I'll whisper there,
In the cool night-air,
What I dare not in broad daylight.



Ashamed, But Not Afraid

By Joseph Horatio Chant



O God, I am ashamed to die,
But not the least afraid;
Tho' death's dark shadow draweth nigh,
Atonement has been made

For every member of our race,
And I on it rely,
And hope immortal blooms thro' grace;
I'm not afraid to die.

But Thou hast done great things for me,
And I have nothing done.
To set my sin-bound spirit free,
Was sacrificed Thy Son;

And every day by Thy kind hand
Rich blessings are bestowed;
Oh, how can I before Thee stand,
Or rest in Thine abode

With self-respect, or feel at home
With no returns to show,
My whole life like the worthless foam
On time's incessant flow.

Oh, that in life's great harvest field,
I may some reaping do;
Early and late the sickle wield,
And prove a reaper true.

And when the summons comes from Thee,
While I on Christ rely,
Thou wilt not be ashamed of me,
Nor I ashamed to die.


When Thou Art Nigh.

By Thomas Moore



When thou art nigh, it seems
A new creation round;
The sun hath fairer beams,
The lute a softer sound.
Tho' thee alone I see,
And hear alone thy sigh,
'Tis light, 'tis song to me,
Tis all--when thou art nigh.

When thou art nigh, no thought
Of grief comes o'er my heart;
I only think--could aught
But joy be where thou art?
Life seems a waste of breath,
When far from thee I sigh;
And death--ay, even death
Were sweet, if thou wert nigh. 

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