With years a richer life begins, the spirit mellow: ripe age gives tones to violins, wine, and good fellows. — John Townsend Trowbridge Copy Share Image
I keep some portion of my early gleam; Brokenly bright, like moonbeams on a river, It lights my life, a far illusive dream, Moves as I move, and leads me on forever. — John Townsend Trowbridge Copy Share Image
Our days, our deeds, all we achieve or are, Lay folded in our infancy; the things Of good or ill we choose while yet… — John Townsend Trowbridge Copy Share Image
The birds can fly, an' why can't I? Must we give in, says he with a grin, That the bluebird an' phoebe are smarter… — John Townsend Trowbridge Copy Share Image
We are two travelers, Roger and I. Roger's my dog-come here, you scamp! Jump for the gentleman-mind your eye! Over the table,-look out for… — John Townsend Trowbridge Copy Share Image
If you will observe, it doesn't take A man of giant mould to make A giant shadow on the wall; And he who in… — John Townsend Trowbridge Copy Share Image
On turf and curb and bower-roof The snow-storm spreads its ivory woof; It paves with pearl the garden-walk; And lovingly around the tatter'd stalk… — John Townsend Trowbridge Copy Share Image
With years a richer life begins, the spirit mellow: ripe age gives tones to violins, wine, and good fellows. — John Townsend Trowbridge Copy Share Image
Men are polished, through act and speech, Each by each, As pebbles are smoothed on the rolling beach. — John Townsend Trowbridge Copy Share Image
The tears of the young who go their way, last a day; But the grief is long of the old who stay. — John Townsend Trowbridge Copy Share Image
I keep some portion of my early gleam; Brokenly bright, like moonbeams on a river, It lights my life, a far illusive dream, Moves… — John Townsend Trowbridge Copy Share Image
"The birds can fly, an' why can't I? Must we give in," says he, with a grin, "'T the blackbird an' phoebe are smarter… — John Townsend Trowbridge Copy Share Image
The speckled sky is dim with snow, The light flakes falter and fall slow; Athwart the hill-top, rapt and pale, Silently drops a silvery… — John Townsend Trowbridge Copy Share Image
