#AmericanWriters
Who told Creed Haymond he was wit… Had nothing better in this world t… Could no greased pig’s appeal to h… Kindle his ardor for the friendly… Did no dead dog upon a vacant lot,
John S. Hittell, whose sovereign… The quill his tributary body yield… The author of an opera-that is, All but the music and libretto’s h… A work renowned, whose formidable…
OM JONESMITH _(loquitur)_: I… The night-a rather clever thing to… How soundly women sleep _(looks at… They’re all alike. The sweetest t… Is woman when she lies with folded…
Beneath my window twilight made Familiar mysteries of shade. Faint voices from the darkening do… Were calling vaguely to the town. Intent upon a low, far gleam
'Tis the widow of Thomas Blythe, And she goeth upon the spree, And red are cheeks of the bystande… For her acts are light and free. In a seven-ounce costume
I know not if it was a dream. I v… A city where the restless multitud… Between the eastern and the wester… Had reared gigantic fabrics, stron… Colossal palaces crowned every hei…
The rain is fierce, it flogs the e… And man’s in danger. O that my mother at my birth Had borne a stranger! The flooded ground is all around.
Lo! the wild rabbit, happy in the… Of qualities to meaner beasts deni… Surveys the ass with reverence and… Adoring his superior length of ear… And says: ‘No living creature, le…
Dear Bruner, once we had a little… (That is to say, 'twas I did all… About the manner of your moral wal… How devious the trail you made in… On level ground, your law-protecte…
With crow bones all the land is wh… From the gates of morn to the gate… Picked clean, they lie on the cumb… And the politician’s paunch is rou… And he strokes it down and across…
Two villains of the highest rank Set out one night to rob a bank. They found the building, looked it… Each window noted, tried each door… Scanned carefully the lidded hole
A cook adorned with paper cap, Or waiter with a tray, May be a worthy kind of chap In his way, But when we want one for Recorder…
Great Joseph D. Redding-illustri… Considered a fish-horn the trumpet… That goddess was angry, and what d… Her trumpet she filled with a gall… And all through the Press, with a…
Within my dark and narrow bed I rested well, new-laid: I heard above my fleshless head The grinding of a spade. A gruffer note ensued and grew
You promised to paint me a picture… Dear Mat, And I was to pay you in rhyme. Although I am loth to inflict you… Most easy of consciences, I’m