famous poem

once this soft turf
the pale day drowses on the western steep
by the rude bridge
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
i hold your heart
those on the top say they know you, earth-they are liars
out of me unworthy and unknown
the old songs
there is a country full of wine
weak-winged is song
o fair and stately maid, whose eyes
we break the glass whose sacred wine
all quiet along the potomac
beneath my window in a city street