
américaine poetry
All poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Never stoops the soaring vulture
On his quarry in the desert,
On the sick or wounded bison,
But another vulture, watching
Filled is Life's goblet to the brim;
And though my eyes with tears are dim,
I see its sparkling bubbles swim,
I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls
The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just;
She dwells by Great Kenhawa's side,
In valleys green and cool;
And all her hope and all her pride
Are in the village school.