Seeming in death to hold back from his foe the land of his fathers

What means these banners spread . . . ?

I was a Viking wild . . .

I heard the trailing garments of the Night . . .

Is it a God, or is it a star that, entranced, I gaze on nightly!

Why don’t you speak for yourself, John?

Still let it ever be thy pride/To linger by the laborer’s side

And, with lessening line and lead, sailors feeling for the land . . .

At the fatal midnight hour, when all evil things have power . . .

. . . how sublime a thing it is to suffer and be strong.

Now in a moment I know what I am for . . .

Three silences there are . . .

The first slight swerving of the heart . . .

Mute with wonder the Shawnee sat . . .

Is this the country that we dreamed in youth . . . ?

How beautiful is the rain!

Turn, turn, my wheel!

For of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: “It might have been.”

Sweet vision! Do not fade away . . . .

. . . the secret of your looks/Lives with the beaver in Canadian brooks.