Henry Timrod

“Sleep sweetly in your humble graves, Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause.”

“Most men know no other rule of right and wrong but custom.”

“Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air which departs with the April rain.”

“Stoop, angels, hither from the skies! There is no holier spot of ground Than where defeated valor lies.”

“There is no rhyme that is half so sweet as the song of the wind in the rippling wheat.”

“The tide of pomp that beats upon the high shore of this world.”

“In a strange land, and blooming alone.”

“I know not why, but all this weary day, Suggested by some look in the landscape, or by some particular sound.”