#Americans #XIXCentury #XXCentury
Writer folk across the bay Take the pains to see and say All their upward palms in air: 'Joaquin Miller’s cut his hair!' Hasten, hasten, writer folk
O hoary sculptor, stay thy hand: I fain would view the lettered sto… What carvest thou?-perchance some… And solemn fancy all thine own. For oft to know the fitting word
Sleep fell upon my senses and I d… Long years had circled since my li… The world was different, and all t… Remote and strange, like noises to… And one great Voice there was; an…
Sir Impycu Lackland, from over th… Has led to the altar Miss Bloatie… The wedding took place at the Chu… The fashion, the rank and the weal… No person was absent of all whom o…
Father! whose hard and cruel law Is part of thy compassion’s plan, Thy works presumptuously we scan For what the prophets say they saw… Unbidden still the awful slope
O bear me, gods, to some enchanted… Where woman’s tears can antidote h…
Old Nick from his place of last r… Came up and looked the world over. He saw how the grass of the good w… And the wicked lived in clover. And he gravely said: ‘This is all…
Judge Armstrong, when the poor ha… To be released from vows that they… In haste, and leisurely repented,… As stern as Rhadamanthus (Minos t… And AEeacus) have drawn your fier…
Upon my desk a single spray, With starry blossoms fraught. I write in many an idle way, Thinking one serious thought. ‘O flowers, a fine Greek name ye…
Off Santa Cruz the western wave Was crimson as with blood: The sun was sinking to his grave Beneath that angry flood. Sir Walter Turnbull, brave and st…
What! imitate me, friend? Suppose… With agony and difficulty do What I do easily-what then? You’v… A style I heartily wish _I_ had n… If I from lack of sense and you f…
See, Lord, fanatics all arrayed For revolution! To foil their villainous crusade Unsheathe again the sacred blade Of persecution.
You say, John Irish, Mr. Taylor… A painted beard. Quite likely tha… And sure 'tis natural you spend yo… On what has been least merciful to… By Taylor’s chin, if I am not mis…
It is the gallant Seventh It fyghteth faste and free! God wot the where it fyghteth I ne desyre to be. The Gonfalon it flyeth,
The rimer quenches his unheeded fi… The sound surceases and the sense… Then the domestic dog, to east and… Expounds the passions burning in h… The rising moon o’er that enchante…