#AmericanWriters
Down come the leaves, Like fleeting years, Or idle tears Of love that grieves. A tinkling trill,
I’m writing comedy again, The daintiest pleasure known to me… Unless a daintier might be To watch your acted comedy: The airy ladies gaily dressed,
I like to read confessions As lengthy as Rousseau’s, With all their slow processions Of innumerable woes. I revel in Cellini,
Silly little bird, Singing of its love, Sang and never heard Winds of wrath above. Winds of wrath came down,
Who cares, Though age oppress, And griefs distress, And the long, long day Rolls slow away
When I was little, My life was half fear. My nerves were as brittle As nature may bear. Shapes monstrous would follow
I think about God. Yet I talk of small matters. Now isn’t it odd How my idle tongue chatters! Of quarrelsome neighbors,
The ghost of night’s long hours de… In congregation dreary, And leave my sorrow-trampled heart Intolerably weary. But Chirpings bright in dewy wood…
I deliver a lecture And pour out my soul, Its full architecture, All rounded and whole. But with those I love best
She fled me through the meadow, She fled me o’er the hill. With such a fling she fled, oh, She may be flying still. But doubtless she grew weary
You think my songs are strange. I think they are myself. I let my fancy range’ The divagating elf. Don’t say my songs are common.
Just to utter a word, That is all I desire; That may still be heard, When I expire; That still may glow,
I’m sick to death of money, of the… And of practising perpetually smal… Of paring off a penny here, anothe… Of the planning and the worrying,… The savages went naked and no doub…
The idle wind blows all the day. I wish it blew my care away. The idle wind blows all day long And weaves a burden to my song Upon the melancholy flight
When I was a little boy, I followed hope and slighted joy. Now my wit has larger scope, I clutch at joy and heed not hope. At least that doctrine I profess,