#AmericanWriters
You—you— Your shadow is sunlight on a plate… Your footsteps, the seeding-place… Your hands moving, a chime of bell… The movement of your hands is the…
Dearest, forgive that with my clum… I broke and bruised your rose. I hardly could suppose It were a thing so fragile that my… Could kill it, thus.
This afternoon was the colour of w… The trees glittered with the tumbl… The sidewalks shone like alleys of… And the houses ran along them laug… Under a tree in the park,
Slipping softly through the sky Little horned, happy moon, Can you hear me up so high? Will you come down soon? On my nursery window-sill
Be patient with you? When the stooping sky Leans down upon the hills And tenderly, as one who soothing… An anguish, gathers earth to lie
Great master! Boyish, sympathetic… Whose orbed and ripened genius lig… From life’s slim, twisted tendril… In crimson-sphered completeness; g… Of crystal portals through whose o…
I walk down the garden paths, And all the daffodils Are blowing, and the bright blue s… I walk down the patterned garden p… In my stiff, brocaded gown.
Dear Virgin Mary, far away, Look down from Heaven while I pra… Open your golden casement high, And lean way out beyond the sky. I am so little, it may be
A black cat among roses, Phlox, lilac-misted under a first-… The sweet smells of heliotrope and… The garden is very still, It is dazed with moonlight,
In the cloud gray mornings I heard the herons Flying And when I came into my garden, My silken outer-garment Trailed over withered leaves.
Naughty little speckled trout, Can’t I coax you to come out? Is it such great fun to play In the water every day? Do you pull the Naiads’ hair
Tell me, Was Venus more beautiful Than you are, When she topped The crinkled waves,
What is poetry? Is it a mosaic Of coloured stones which curiously… Into a pattern? Rather glass that… By patient labor any hue to take And glowing with a sumptuous splen…
Brighter than fireflies upon the… Are your words in the dark, Belov…
How is it that, being gone, you fi… And all the long nights are made g… No loneliness is this, nor misery, But great content that these shoul… Whereby the Fancy, dreaming as sh…