#AmericanWriters
In the old churchyard of his nativ… And in the ancestral tomb beside t… We laid him in the sleep that come… And left him to his rest and his r… The snow was falling, as if Heave…
The evening came; the golden vane A moment in the sunset glanced, Then darkened, and then gleamed ag… As from the east the moon advanced And touched it with a softer light…
Shepherd! who with thine amorous s… Hast broken the slumber that encom… Who mad’st thy crook from the accu… On which thy powerful arms were st… Lead me to mercy’s ever-flowing fo…
Can it be the sun descending O’er the level plain of water? Or the Red Swan floating, flying, Wounded by the magic arrow, Staining all the waves with crimso…
Southward with fleet of ice Sailed the corsair Death; Wild and gast blew the blast, And the east—wind was his breath. His lordly ships of ice
Sweet the memory is to me Of a land beyond the sea, Where the waves and mountains meet… Where amid her mulberry-trees Sits Amalfi in the heat,
Witlaf, a king of the Saxons, Ere yet his last he breathed, To the merry monks of Croyland His drinking—horn bequeathed,— That, whenever they sat at their r…
Garlands upon his grave And flowers upon his hearse, And to the tender heart and brave The tribute of this verse. His was the troubled life,
Have I dreamed? or was it real, What I saw as in a vision, When to marches hymeneal In the land of the Ideal Moved my thought o’er Fields Elys…
Thou ancient oak! whose myriad lea… With sounds of unintelligible spee… Sounds as of surges on a shingly b… Or multitudinous murmurs of a crow… With some mysterious gift of tongu…
On St. Bavon’s tower, commanding Half of Flanders, his domain, Charles the Emperor once was stan… While beneath him on the landing Stood Duke Alva and his train.
What say the Bells of San Blas To the ships that southward pass From the harbor of Mazatlan? To them it is nothing more Than the sound of surf on the shor…
In the long, sleepless watches of… A gentle face —the face of one lon… Looks at me from the wall, where r… The night—lamp casts a halo of pal… Here in this room she died; and so…
Pleasant it was, when woods were g… And winds were soft and low, To lie amid some sylvan scene. Where, the long drooping boughs be… Shadows dark and sunlight sheen
Thorberg Skafting, master-builder… In his ship-yard by the sea, Whistling, said, ‘It would bewild… Any man but Thorberg Skafting, Any man but me!’