Library of the best American literature / Containing the lives of our authors in story form, their portraits, their homes, and their personal traits, how they worked and what they wrote; choice selections from eminent writers, embracing great American poets and novelists, foremost women in American letters, distinguished critics and essayists, our national humorists, noted journalists and magazine contributors, popular writers for young people, great orators and public lecturers

by Unknown

When her dulcet harp she playeth,

Wild birds singing nigh,

Cluster, listening, by her white hands—

But my reed have I.

I am but a simple herdsman,

With nor house nor lands;

She hath men and maids for service—

I have but my hands.

And yet what are all her crimsons

To my sunset sky—