#AmericanWriters
If heaven were to do again, And on the pasture bars, I leaned to line the figures in Between the dotted stars, I should be tempted to forget,
There were three in the meadow by… Gathering up windrows, piling cock… With an eye always lifted toward t… Where an irregular sun—bordered cl… Darkly advanced with a perpetual d…
When the spent sun throws up its r… And goes down burning into the gul… No voice in nature is heard to cry… At what has happened. Birds, at l… It is the change to darkness in th…
There sandy seems the golden sky And golden seems the sandy plain. No habitation meets the eye Unless in the horizon rim, Some halfway up the limestone wall…
The well was dry beside the door, And so we went with pail and can Across the fields behind the house To seek the brook if still it ran; Not loth to have excuse to go,
We sit indoors and talk of the col… And every gust that gathers streng… Is a threat to the house. But the… We think of the tree. If it never… We’ll know, we say, that this was…
“OH, let’s go up the hill and sca… As reckless as the best of them to… By setting fire to all the brush w… With pitchy hands to wait for rain… Oh, let’s not wait for rain to mak…
He is that fallen lance that lies… That lies unlifted now, come dew,… But still lies pointed as it ploug… If we who sight along it round the… See nothing worthy to have been it…
ALWAYS the same, when on a fate… At last the gathered snow lets dow… As may be in dark woods, and with… It shall not make again all winter… Of hissing on the yet uncovered gr…
I have wished a bird would fly awa… And not sing by my house all day; Have clapped my hands at him from… When it seemed as if I could bear… The fault must partly have been in…
A neighbor of mine in the village Likes to tell how one spring When she was a girl on the farm, s… A childlike thing. One day she asked her father
For Lincoln MacVeagh Never tell me that not one star of… That slip from heaven at night and… Has been picked up with stones to… Some laborer found one faded and s…
I Dwell in a lonely house I know That vanished many a summer ago, And left no trace but the cellar w… And a cellar in which the daylight… And the purple-stemmed wild raspbe…
Nothing to say to all those marria… She had made three herself to thre… The score was even for them, three… But come to die she found she care… She thought of children in a buria…
Others taunt me with having knelt… Always wrong to the light, so neve… Deeper down in the well than where… Gives me back in a shining surface… Me myself in the summer heaven god…