#AmericanWriters
Give me truths, For I am weary of the surfaces, And die of inanition. If I knew Only the herbs and simples of the… Rue, cinquefoil, gill, vervain, an…
Wise and polite,—and if I drew Their several portraits, you would… Chaucer had no such worthy crew, Nor Boccace in Decameron. We crossed Champlain to Keesevill…
Good Heart, that ownest all! I ask a modest boon and small: Not of lands and towns the gift,— Too large a load for me to lift,— But for one proper creature,
The rain has spoiled the farmer’s… Shall sorrow put my books away? Thereby are two days lost: Nature shall mind her own affairs, I will attend my proper cares,
IT fell in the ancient periods Which the brooding soul surveys, Or ever the wild Time coin’d itse… Into calendar months and days. This was the lapse of Uriel,
Long I followed happy guides,— I could never reach their sides. Their step is forth, and, ere the… Breaks up their leaguer, and away. Keen my sense, my heart was young,
Two well—assorted travellers use The highway, Eros and the Muse. From the twins is nothing hidden, To the pair is naught forbidden; Hand in hand the comrades go
If the red slayer think he slays, Or if the slain think he is slain, They know not well the subtle ways I keep, and pass, and turn again. Far or forgot to me is near;
THE EYE is the first circle; the horizon which it forms is the second; and throughout nature this primary picture is repeated without end. It is the highest emblem in the cipher of the ...
The sinful painter drapes his godd… Because she still is naked, being… The godlike sculptor will not so d… Beauty, which bones and flesh enou…
Little thinks, in the field, yon r… Of thee from the hill—top looking… The heifer that lows in the upland… Far—heard, lows not thine ear to c… The sexton, tolling his bell at no…
I do not count the hours I spend In wandering by the sea; The forest is my loyal friend, Like God it useth me. In plains that room for shadows ma…
Low and mournful be the strain, Haughty thought be far from me; Tones of penitence and pain, Moanings of the tropic sea; Low and tender in the cell
I am the Muse who sung alway By Jove, at dawn of the first day… Star—crowned, sole—sitting, long… To fire the stagnant earth with th… On spawning slime my song prevails…
It is time to be old, To take in sail:— The god of bounds, Who sets to seas a shore, Came to me in his fatal rounds,