#AmericanWriters
Bud, come here to your uncle a spe… And I’ll tell you something you m… For it’s a secret and shore-'nuf t… And maybe I oughtn’t to tell it t… But out in the garden, under the s…
Oh, the Circus-Day parade! How t… And how the glossy horses tossed t… As the rattle and the rhyme of the… Filled all the hungry hearts of us… How the grand band-wagon shone wit…
A goddess, with a siren’s grace,— A sun-haired girl on a craggy plac… Above a bay where fish-boats lay Drifting about like birds of prey. Wrought was she of a painter’s dre…
Always suddenly they are gone— The friends we trusted and held se… Suddenly we are gazing on, Not a _smiling_ face, but the marb… Dead mask of a face that nevermore
Low hidden in among the forest tre… An artist’s tilted easel, ankle-de… In tousled ferns and mosses, and i… A fluffy water-spaniel, half aslee… Beside a sketch-book and a fallen…
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…
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,
I dreamed I was a spider; A big, fat, hungry spider; A lusty, rusty spider With a dozen palsied limbs; With a dozen limbs that dangled
'Write me a rhyme of the present t… And the poet took his pen And wrote such lines as the miser… Hide in the hearts of men. He grew enthused, as the poets use…
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—
Donn Piatt—of Mac-o-chee,— Not the one of History, Who, with flaming tongue and pen, Scathes the vanities of men; Not the one whose biting wit
As one who cons at evening o’er an… And muses on the faces of the frie… So I turn the leaves of Fancy, ti… I find the smiling features of an… The lamplight seems to glimmer wit…
At Noey’s house—when they arrived… How snug seemed everything, and ne… The little picket-fence, and littl… It’s little pulley, and its little… All glib as clock-work, as it clic…
With a sweeter voice than birds Dare to twitter in their sleep, Pipe for me a tune of words, Till my dancing fancies leap Into freedom vaster far
How slight a thing may set one’s f… Upon the dead sea of the Past!—A… Sometimes an odor—or a rooster lif… A far-off ‘OOH! OOH-OOH!’ And suddenly we find ourselves ast…