#AmericanWriters
A monument for the Soldiers! And what will ye build it of? Can ye build it of marble, or bras… Outlasting the Soldiers’ love? Can ye glorify it with legends
How tired I am! I sink down all a… Here by the wayside of the Presen… Even as a child I hide my face an… A little girl that may no farther… The path above me only seems to gr…
‘Scurious-like,’ said the tree-toa… 'I’ve twittered far rain all day; And I got up soon, And I hollered till noon— But the sun, hit blazed away,
By her white bed I muse a little… She fell asleep—not very long ago,… And yet the grass was here and not… The leaf, the bud, the blossom, an… Midsummer’s heaven above us, and t…
If I knew what poets know, Would I write a rhyme Of the buds that never blow In the summer-time? Would I sing of golden seeds
I woo’d a woman once, But she was sharper than an easter… Tennyson “What may I do to make you glad, To make you glad and free,
There was a cherry-tree. Its bloo… Cool even now the fevered sight th… No more its airy visions of pure j… As when you were a boy. There was a cherry-tree. The Blue…
Take a feller 'at’s sick and laid… All shaky, and ga’nted, and pore— Jes all so knocked out he can’t ha… With a stiff upper-lip any more; Shet him up all alone in the gloom…
For you, I could forget the gay Delirium of merriment, And let my laughter die away In endless silence of content. I could forget, for your dear sake…
The same old story told again— The maiden droops her head, The ripening glow of her crimson c… Is answering in her stead. The pleading tone of a trembling v…
Ah, help me! but her face and brow Are lovelier than lilies are Beneath the light of moon and star That smile as they are smiling now… White lilies in a pallid swoon
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;
It was just a very Merry fairy dream!— All the woods were airy With the gloom and gleam; Crickets in the clover
We’re The Twins from Aunt Marinn… Igo and Ago. When Dad comes, the show begins!— Iram, coram, dago. Dad he says he named us two
Her heart knew naught of sorrow, Nor the vaguest taint of sin— 'Twas an ever-blooming blossom Of the purity within: And her hands knew only touches