The Keepsake - Yone Noguchi

Love faded away, the keepsake she left me is these children, three or four.
I eat, I sleep . . . it's all the same today as yesterday.
The clock strikes one at midnight,
I spring up, I straighten a quilt over the sleeping children by my side.

Hymns to the Night (no. 4) - Novalis

Over I journey
And for each pain
A pleasant sting only
Shall one day remain.

Mortal Though I Be - Claudius Ptolemy

Mortal though I be, yea ephemeral, if but a moment
  I gaze up to the night’s starry domain of heaven,

Beneath the Canopy of the Skies - Baba Tahir

Beneath the canopy of the skies roam I night and day:
My home is in the desert by night and day.
  No sickness troubleth me nor silent pain tormenteth;
One thing I know, that I sorrow night and day.

The love of God - Bernard Rascas

All things that are on earth shall wholly pass away,
Except the love of God, which shall live and last for aye.

The Dream Wife - Kajetan Węgierski

Strangely 'wildered must I seem;
I was married — in a dream.
Oh, the ecstasy of bliss!
Brother, what a joy is this!

A Confession - Agnes Louise Storrie

You did not know, - how could you, dear, -
How much you stood for? Life in you
Retained its touch of Eden dew,

Fodder-Time - Carmen Sylva

How sweet the manger smells! The cows all listen
  With outstretched necks, and with impatient lowing;
  They greet the clover, their content now showing—
And how they lick their noses till they glisten!

Hatikvah—A Song of Hope - Naphtali Herz Imber

O while within a Jewish breast
  Beats true a Jewish heart,
And Jewish glances turning East
  To Zion fondly dart,—

The Old Place - Blanche Edith Baughan

So the last day’s come at last, the close of my fifteen year—
The end of the hope, an’ the struggles, an’ messes I’ve put in here.
All of the shearings over, the final mustering done,—
Eleven hundred an’ fifty for the incoming man, near on.
Over five thousand I drove ’em, mob by mob, down the coast;
Eleven-fifty in fifteen year…it isn’t much of a boast.

The Indian’s Grave - George Jehoshaphat Mountain

Bright are the heavens, the narrow bay serene;
  No sound is heard within the shelter’d place,
Save some sweet whisper of the pines—nor seen
  Of restless man, nor of his works, a trace;