#AmericanWriters
O the days gone by! O the days go… The apples in the orchard, and the… The chirrup of the robin, and the… As he piped across the meadows swe… When the bloom was on the clover,…
An afternoon as ripe with heat As might the golden pippin be With mellowness if at my feet It dropped now from the apple-tree My hammock swings in lazily.
I would not trace the hackneyed ph… Of shallow words and empty praise, And prate of 'peace’ till one migh… My foolish pen was drunk with ink. Nor will I here the wish express
Las’ July—an’, I persume 'Bout as hot As the ole Gran’-Jury room Where they sot!— Fight 'twixt Mike an’ Dock McGri…
It tossed its head at the wooing b… And the sun, like a bashful swain, Beamed on it through the waving tr… With a passion all in vain,— For my rose laughed in a crimson g…
In words like weeds, I’ll wrap me… Like coarsest clothes against the… But that large grief which these e… Is given in outline and no more. —TENNYSON.
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;
‘How did you rest, last night?’— I’ve heard my gran’pap say Them words a thousand times—that’s… Jes them words thataway! As punctchul-like as morning dast
They meet to say farewell: Their… Of saying this is hard to say—. He holds her hand an Instant, who… Distressed—and she unclasps it slo… He lends his gaze evasively
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,
The greeting of the company throug… Was like a jubilee,—the children’s… And fusillading hand-claps, with g… And detonations of the older ones, Raged to such tumult of tempestuou…
Such was the Child-World of the l… The little world these children us… Johnty, the oldest, and the best,… Of the five happy little Hoosier… Inhabiting this wee world all thei…
The landscape, like the awed face… Grew curiously blurred; a hush of… Fell on the fields, and in the dar… The zephyr held its breath. No wavering glamour-work of light…
It’s a mystery to see me—a man o’… Who’s lived a cross old bachelor f… A-lookin’ glad and smilin’! And t… That you can guess the reason why… I must tell you all about it! But…
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