#AmericanWriters
A rose in my garden, the sweetest… Was hanging her head through the l… And early one morning I saw her t… And heard a low gossiping talk in… The yellow Nasturtium, a spinster…
In France I saw a hill-a gentle s… Rising above old tombs to greet th… From soft spring skies. Beyond th… But those green graves bespeak a b… There was a row of narrow beds, ne…
Said the manicure scissors one day… ‘The shears always have their own… And I think it absurd That I am deterred From entering into life’s fray.
Baby was playing and down he fell,… Mama will kiss him and make him we… Oh! what a miracle this is! Baby was running and stubbed his t… If mama will kiss him the pain wil…
I have been down in the darkest wa… Deep, deep down where no light cou… Alone with the things that are ben… The mindless things that are cruel… I have fought with fear in my wave…
Our lives are songs. God writes t… And we set them to music at pleasu… And the song grows glad, or sweet,… As we choose to fashion the measur… We must write the music, whatever…
Some day, when the golden glory Of June is over the earth, And the birds are singing together In a wild, mad strain of mirth; When the skies are as clear and cl…
Should some great angel say to me… “Thou must re-tread thy pathway fr… But God will grant, in pity, for… Some one dear wish, the nearest to… This were my wish! from my life’s…
’Twixt what thou art, and what tho… No “If” arise on which to lay the… Man makes a mountain of that puny… But, like a blade of grass before… It falls and withers when a human…
Though you see no banded army, Though you hear no cannons rattle, We are in a mighty contest, We are fighting a great battle. We are few, but we are right:
The sweet young Spring walks over… It flushes and glows on moor and l… The birds are singing in careless… The brook flows cheerily on to the… And I know that the flowers are b…
Oh, boastful, wicked land, that on… How bitter and how black must be y… While Time goes down the centurie… Time’s voice is just. His words r… The clear-eyed Future slowly writ…
Hers was a lonely, shadowed lot; Or so the unperceiving thought, Who looked no deeper than her face… Devoid of chiselled lines of grace… No farther than her humble grate,
Here in my office I sit and write Hour on hour, and day on day, With no one to speak to from morn… Though I have a neighbour just ov… Across the alley that yawns betwee…
Who travels alone with his eyes on… Though he laughs in the day time o… For courage goes down at the set o… When the toil of the journey is al… He speeds but to grief though full…