#AmericanWriters
O the waiting in the watches of th… In the darkness, desolation, and c… The awful hush that holds us shut… The ever weary memory that ever we… Recounting ever over every aching…
It was a man of many parts, Who in his coffer mind Had stored the Classics and the A… And Sciences combined; The purest gems of poesy
The audience entire seemed pleased… _Extremely_ pleased. And little M… From her task of instructing, ran… Her wondrous colored picture to an… Among the company.
It was just a very Merry fairy dream!— All the woods were airy With the gloom and gleam; Crickets in the clover
Heigh-ho! Babyhood! Tell me where… Let’s toddle home again, for we ha… Take this eager hand of mine and l… Back to the Lotus lands of the fa… Turn back the leaves of life; don’…
The air falls chill; The whippoorwill Pipes lonesomely behind the Hill: The dusk grows dense, The silence tense;
Season of snows, and season of flo… Seasons of loss and gain!— Since grief and joy must alike be… Why do we still complain? Ever our failing, from sun to sun,
Owned a pair o’ skates onc’t.—Tra… Fer ‘em,—stropped ’em on and waded Up and down the crick, a-waitin’ Tel she’d freeze up fit fer skatin… Mildest winter I remember—
They called him Mr. What’s-his-na… From where he was, or why he came, Or when, or what he found to do, Nobody in the city knew. He lived, it seemed, shut up alone
Wilful we are in our infirmity Of childish questioning and discon… Whate’er befalls us is divinely me… Thou Truth the clearer for thy my… Make us to meet what is or is to b…
'I deem that God is not disquiete… This in a mighty poet’s rhymes I… And blazoned so forever doth abide Within my soul the legend glorifie… Though awful tempests thunder over…
AFTER READING HIS AU… POOR victim of that vulture curs… That hovers o’er the universe, With ready talons quick to strike In every human heart alike,
They all climbed up on a high boar… Nine little Goblins, with green-g… Nine little Goblins that had no s… And couldn’t tell coppers from col… And they all climbed up on the fen…
How many of my selves are dead? The ghosts of many haunt me: Lo, The baby in the tiny bed With rockers on, is blanketed And sleeping in the long ago;
_You who to the rounded prime_ _Of a life of toil and stress_, _Still have kept the morning-time_ _Of glad youth in heart and spirit… _So your laugh, as children hear i…