#Americans #XIXCentury #XXCentury
Last night—how deep the darkness w… And well I knew its depths, becau… I waded it from shore to shore, Thinking to reach the light no mor… She would not even touch my hand—-…
The warm pulse of the nation has g… The muffled heart of Freedom, lik… Throbs solemnly for one whose eart… Wrought every mission well. Whose glowing reason towered above…
The old days—the far days— The overdear and fair!— The old days—the lost days— How lovely they were! The old days of Morning,
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—
The touches of her hands are like… Of velvet snowflakes; like the tou… The peach just brushes 'gainst the… The flossy fondlings of the thistl… Caught in the crinkle of a leaf of…
Grand Haven is in Michigan, and i… Of as many rare attractions as our… The fine hotel, the landlord, and… And the dainty-neat completeness o… The touch on the piano in the parl…
Had a hare-lip—Joney had: Spiled his looks, and Joney knowe… Fellers tried to bore him, bad— But ef ever he got mad, He kep’ still and never showed it.
The Crankadox leaned o’er the edg… And wistfully gazed on the sea Where the Gryxabodill madly whist… To the air of ‘Ti-fol-de-ding-dee… The quavering shriek of the Fly-u…
Hereafter! O we need not waste Our smiles or tears, whatever befa… No happiness but holds a taste Of something sweeter, after all;— No depth of agony but feels
As a harvester, at dusk, Faring down some woody trail Leading homeward through the musk Of may-apple and pawpaw, Hazel-bush, and spice and haw,—
'When it’s _got_ to be,'—like! alw… As I notice the years whiz past, And know each day is a yesterday, When we size it up, at last,— Same as I said when my _boyhood_…
The afternoon of summer folds Its warm arms round the marigolds, And with its gleaming fingers, pet… The watered pinks and violets That from the casement vases spill…
Tell you what I like the best— ‘Long about knee-deep in June, ’Bout the time strawberries melts On the vine,—some afternoon Like to jes’ git out and rest,
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;
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.