#AmericanWriters
Away! away! away! away! Ye have not kept your secret well, I will abide that other day, Those other lands ye tell. Has time no leisure left for these…
I was made erect and lone, And within me is the bone; Still my vision will be clear, Still my life will not be drear, To the center all is near.
Among the signs of autumn I perce… The Roman wormwood (called by lea… Ambrosia elatior, food for gods,'… For to impartial science the humbl… Is as immortal once as the proudes…
They who prepare my evening meal b… Carelessly hit the kettle as they… With tongs or shovel, And ringing round and round, Out of this hovel
MY life is like a stroll upon the… As near the ocean’s edge as I c… My tardy steps its waves sometimes… Sometimes I stay to let them over… My sole employment is, and scrupul…
Great God, I ask for no meaner pe… Than that I may not disappoint my… That in my action I may soar as h… As I can now discern with this cl… And next in value, which thy kindn…
Let such pure hate still underprop Our love, that we may be Each other’s conscience, And have our sympathy Mainly from thence.
Sometimes a mortal feels in himsel… —not his Father but his Mother st… within him, and he becomes immorta… immortality. From time to time she… kindredship with us, and some glob…
On fields o’er which the reaper’s… Lit by the harvest moon and autumn… My thoughts like stubble floating… And of such fineness as October a… There after harvest could I glean…
ALL things are current found On earthly ground, Spirits and elements Have their descents. Night and day, year on year,
Within the circuit of this ploddin… There enter moments of an azure hu… Untarnished fair as is the violet Or anemone, when the spring stew t… By some meandering rivulet, which…
There is a vale which none hath se… Where foot of man has never been, Such as here lives with toil and s… An anxious and a sinful life. There every virtue has its birth,
There is health in thy gray wing, Health of nature’s furnishing. Say, thou modern-winged antique, Was thy mistress ever sick? In each heaving of thy wing
Packed in my mind lie all the clot… Which outward nature wears, And in its fashion’s hourly change It all things else repairs. In vain I look for change abroad,