Alone I walked on the ocean strand, A pearly shell was in my hand; I stooped, and wrote upon the sand My name, the year, the day. As onward from the sport I passed, One lingering look behind I cast, A wave came rolling high and fast, And washed my lines away.
"A Name In the Sand"
Wisdom, Power and Goodness meet In the bounteous field of wheat.
Come out — pretty Rose-Bud, — my lone, timid one! Come forth from thy green leaves, and peep at the sun! For little he does, in these dull autumn hours, At height'ning of beauty, or laughing with flowers.
"The Rose-Bud of Autumn" in The Youth's Coronal (published 1850).
I am feeble, pale and weary, And my wings are nearly furled; I have caused a scene so dreary, I am glad to quit the world! With bitterness I'm thinking On the evil I have done, And to my caverns sinking From the coming of the sun.
"The Dying Storm" in Poems (published 1835), p. 59.