#AmericanWriters
Half across the world from me Lie the lands I’ll never see– I, whose longing lives and dies Where a ship has sailed away; I, that never close my eyes
New love, new love, where are you… All along a narrow way that marks… How are you to slake me, and how a… With bitter yellow berries, and a… New love, new love, shall I be fo…
Oh, ponder, friend, the porcupine; Refresh your recollection, And sit a moment, to define His means of self-protection. How truly fortified is he!
This is what I vow; He shall have my heart to keep, Sweetly will we stir and sleep, All the years, as now. Swift the measured sands may run;
The friends I made have slipped a… And who’s the one that cares? A trifling lot and best forgot– And that’s my tale, and theirs. Then if my friendships break and b…
I. The Minor Poet His little trills and chirpings we… No music like the nightingale’s wa… Within his throat; but he, too, la… Upon a thorn.
Now it’s over, and now it’s done; Why does everything look the same? Just as bright, the unheeding sun,… Can’t it see that the parting came… People hurry and work and swear,
I dunno yer highfalutin’ words, bu… When I’m peekin’ out th’ winder o… I’ve been lookin’ 'roun’ this big… An’ I want t’ tell ye, neighbor m… I’ve ben settin’ here, a-thinkin’…
All her hours were yellow sands, Blown in foolish whorls and tassel… Slipping warmly through her hands; Patted into little castles. Shiny day on shiny day
Long I fought the driving lists, Plume a-stream and armor clanging; Link on link, between my wrists, Now my heavy freedom’s hanging.
Her mind lives in a quiet room, A narrow room, and tall, With pretty lamps to quench the gl… And mottoes on the wall. There all the things are waxen nea…
I do not like my state of mind; I’m bitter, querulous, unkind. I hate my legs, I hate my hands, I do not yearn for lovelier lands. I dread the dawn’s recurrent light…
I shall come back without fanfaron… Of wailing wind and graveyard pano… But, trembling, slip from cool Et… A mild and most bewildered little… I shall not make sepulchral midnig…
Because your eyes are slant and sl… Because your hair is sweet to touc… My heart is high again; but oh, I doubt if this will get me much.
Star, that gives a gracious dole, What am I to choose? Oh, will it be a shriven soul, Or little buckled shoes? Shall I wish a wedding-ring,