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In the Picture Gallery

With palette laden
She sat, as I passed her,
A dainty maiden
Before an Old Master.

What mountain-top is
She bent upon? Ah,
She neatly copies
Murillo's Madonna.

But rapt and brimming
The eyes' full chalice says
The heart builds dreaming
Its fairy-palaces.

* * *

The eighteenth year rolled
By, ere returning,
I greeted the dear old

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poem by Henrik Johan Ibsen
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Mistress of The Sea

She walks upon silver waters
Ever so graceful is her stride
Traveling farther and farher
Bathing in its silver tide

Hear her heavenly tune
Drifting through the salty breeze
Beauty as lovely as the moon
That any would hope to cleave

Mistress of the sea
How gorgeous you can be

poem by Veronica Murillo
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Spanien, hvilken Rigdom har Du

Spanien, hvilken Rigdom har Du
af Naturens Deilighed;
Palmeskov og Cactus-Vildhed,
udbrændt Ørken, Blomsterbed.
Skjønheds Skikkelser her vandre,
malerisk er hver en Dragt,
Og om dine Kyster svulmer
Havet i sin Storheds Magt.
Maurerfolket gav Dig Minder,
hvori Aand og Skjønhed boer;
Ved Cervantes og Murillo
er i Snillets Hjem Du stor;
Og din Nutid eier Ungdom,
Munkene Du fra Dig jog;
Spaniens Blomstren forudseer jeg
lyse vil i Fremtids Bog.

poem by Hans Christian Andersen
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We Go Down Together

I find myself saying
Hoping and praying
We go down together
Playing in the dirt
Covering my hurt
Running down this path
Trying to dodge God's wrath
Going down together
I pulled on your hand
Making you fall so you wouldn't stand
Going down together
I plan to turn myself in
When I do it'll be your end
Going down together
I'll reveal everything
Then I'll cut your puppet strings
Going down together
I've used you, so now you know
I'll finally let you go
We go down together

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poem by Veronica Murillo
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The Two Elizabeths

Read at the unveiling of the bust of Elizabeth Fry at the Friends'
School, Providence, R. I.

A. D. 1209.

AMIDST Thuringia's wooded hills she dwelt,
A high-born princess, servant of the poor,
Sweetening with gracious words the food she dealt
To starving throngs at Wartburg's blazoned door.

A blinded zealot held her soul in chains,
Cramped the sweet nature that he could not kill,
Scarred her fair body with his penance-pains,
And gauged her conscience by his narrow will.

God gave her gifts of beauty and of grace,
With fast and vigil she denied them all;
Unquestioning, with sad, pathetic face,
She followed meekly at her stern guide's call.

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poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Dover To Munich

Farewell, farewell! Before our prow
Leaps in white foam the noisy channel,
A tourist's cap is on my brow,
My legs are cased in tourists' flannel:

Around me gasp the invalids -
(The quantity to-night is fearful) -
I take a brace or so of weeds,
And feel (as yet) extremely cheerful.

The night wears on:- my thirst I quench
With one imperial pint of porter;
Then drop upon a casual bench -
(The bench is short, but I am shorter) -

Place 'neath my head the harve-sac
Which I have stowed my little all in,
And sleep, though moist about the back,
Serenely in an old tarpaulin.

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poem by Charles Stuart Calverley
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