#AmericanWriters
My hand, a little raised, might pr… Where I may look, the frosted pea… So shaped before Olympus was begu… Spanned each to each, now, by a si… Thus to face Beauty have I travel…
“It’s queer,” she said; “I see th… As plain as I beheld it then, All silver—like and calm and brigh… We’ve not had stars like that agai… ”And she was such a gentle thing
Who call him spurious and shoddy Shall do it o’er my lifeless body. I heartily invite such birds To come outside and say those word…
Should Heaven send me any son, I hope he’s not like Tennyson. I’d rather have him play a fiddle Than rise and bow and speak an idy…
Unto seventy years and seven, Hide your double birthright well– You, that are the brat of Heaven And the pampered heir to Hell. Let your rhymes be tinsel treasure…
How shall I wail, that wasn’t mea… Love has run and left me, oh, what… Dream, then, I must, who never ca… What if I should meet Love, once… What if I met him, walking on the…
Hope it was that tutored me, And Love that taught me more; And now I learn at Sorrow’s knee The self-same lore.
He will love you presently If you be the way you be. Send your heart a-skittering. He will stoop, and lift the thing. Be your dreams as thread, to tease
If I should labor through dayligh… Consecrate, valorous, serious, tru… Then on the world I may blazon my… And what if I don’t, and what if…
Roses, rooted warm in earth, Bud in rhyme, another age; Lilies know a ghostly birth Strewn along a patterned page; Golden lad and chimbley sweep
Love has had his way with me. This my heart is torn and maimed Since he took his play with me. Cruel well the bow-boy aimed, Shot, and saw the feathered shaft
Oh, ponder, friend, the porcupine; Refresh your recollection, And sit a moment, to define His means of self-protection. How truly fortified is he!
Four be the things I am wiser to… Idleness, sorrow, a friend, and a… Four be the things I’d been bette… Love, curiosity, freckles, and dou… Three be the things I shall never…
I know I have been happiest at yo… But what is done, is done, and all… And small the good, to linger dole… Gayly it lived, and gallantly it d… I will not make you songs of heart…
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.
