An 1888 lithograph of Piatt.
( Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt 11 August 1836 – 22 December 1919) was an American poet from Kentucky.
There stretch'd a sleeping army. One by one,
They took their places until thousands met;
No leader's stars flash'd on before, and none
Lean'd on his sword or stagger'd with his gun --
I wonder if their feet have rested yet!
My mother says I must not pass
Too near that glass;
She is afraid that I will see
A little witch that looks like me,
With a red mouth to whisper low
The very thing I should not know.
The Witch in the Glass (1881).
This was your butterfly, you see—
His fine wings made him vain:
The caterpillars crawl, but he
Passed them in rich disdain.—
My pretty boy says, “Let him be
Only a worm again!
Other suns will shine as golden,
Other skies be just as blue;
Other south winds blow as softly,
Gently drinking up the dew.
All the glories of the sunset,
In the sunrise one may see;
That which others call the dawning
Is the night for you and me.
If this be all, for which I've listened long,
Oh, spirit of the dew!
You did not sing to Shelley such a song
As Shelley sung to you.
A Word With a Skylark, lines 1-4.
Yet, with this
ruined Old World for a nest,
Worm-eaten through and through,-
A Word With a Skylark, lines 5-6.
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