#AmericanWriters
I want to sing something—but this… I try and I try, but the rhymes a… As though they were damp, and the… Limp and unlovable. Words will not say what I yearn t…
Ay, thou varlet! Laugh away! All the world’s a holiday! Laugh away, and roar and shout Till thy hoarse tongue lolleth out… Bloat thy cheeks, and bulge thine…
On the banks o’ Deer Crick! Ther… Worter slidin’ past ye jes as clai… See yer shadder in it, and the sha… And the shadder o’ the buzzard as… Shadder o’ the pizen-vines, and sh…
The man that rooms next door to me… Two weeks ago, this very night, He took possession quietly, As any other lodger might— But why the room next mine should…
To hear her sing—to hear her sing— It is to hear the birds of Spring In dewy groves on blooming sprays Pour out their blithest roundelays… It is to hear the robin trill
There is a princess in the South About whose beauty rumors hum Like honey-bees about the mouth Of roses dewdrops falter from; And O her hair is like the fine
‘The voice of One hath spoken, And the bended reed is bruised— The golden bowl is broken, And the silver cord is loosed.’ Over the eyes of gladness
I find an old deserted nest, Half-hidden in the underbrush: A withered leaf, in phantom jest, Has nestled in it like a thrush With weary, palpitating breast.
‘O Printerman of sallow face, And look of absent guile, Is it the ’copy’ on your 'case’ That causes you to smile? Or is it some old treasure scrap
They rode right out of the morning… A glimmering, glittering cavalcade Of knights and ladies and every on… In princely sheen arrayed; And the king of them all, O he ro…
O her eyes are amber-fine— Dark and deep as wells of wine, While her smile is like the noon Splendor of a day of June. If she sorrow—lo! her face
1 You better not fool with a… 2 Ef you don’t think they can… 3 They’re lazy to look at, an’… 4 Buzzin’ an’ bummin’ aroun’ s… 5 An’ ac’ so slouchy an’ all f…
What delightful hosts are they— Life and Love! Lingeringly I turn away, This late hour, yet glad enough They have not withheld from me
My little story, Cousin Rufus sai… Is not so much a story as a fact. It is about a certain willful boy— An aggrieved, unappreciated boy, Grown to dislike his own home very…
Where are they—the Afterwhiles— Luring us the lengthening miles Of our lives? Where is the dawn With the dew across the lawn Stroked with eager feet the far