#AmericanWriters
A NOTELESS stream, the Birchb… Beneath its leaning trees; That low, soft ripple is its own, That dull roar is the sea’s. Of human signs it sees alone
‘BRING out your dead!’ The midn… Heard and gave back the hoarse, lo… Harsh fell the tread of hasty feet… Glanced through the dark the coars… Her coffin and her pall.
MASSACHUSETTS BAY, 1760. THE robins sang in the orchard, t… blossoms grew; Little of human sorrow the buds an… knew!
Though flowers have perished at th… Of Frost, the early comer, I hail the season loved so much, The good St. Martin’s summer. O gracious morn, with rose-red daw…
LONGFELLOW. WITH a glory of winter sunshine Over his locks of gray, In the old historic mansion He sat on his last birthday;
Not vainly did old poets tell, Nor vainly did old genius paint God’s great and crowning miracle, The hero and the saint! For even in a faithless day
Up the streets of Aberdeen, By the kirk and college green, Rode the Laird of Ury; Close behind him, close beside, Foul of mouth and evil-eyed,
O Mother State! the winds of Mar… Blew chill o’er Auburn’s Field of… Where, slow, beneath a leaden arch Of sky, thy mourning children trod… And now, with all thy woods in lea…
For Dr Henry L Bowditch With warning hand I mark Time’s r… flight From life’s glad morning to it’s s… night;
The new world honors him whose lof… For England’s freedom made her ow… Whose song, immortal as its theme,… Their common freehold while both w…
THE pleasant isle of Rügen looks… To the silver-sanded beaches of th… And in the town of Rambin a littl… Plucked the meadow-flowers togethe… Alike were they in beauty if not i…
AGAINST the wooded hills it sta… Ghost of a dead home, staring thro… Its broken lights on wasted lands Where old-time harvests grew. Unploughed, unsown, by scythe unsh…
Who stands on that cliff, like a f… Unmoving and tall in the light of… Where the spray of the cataract sp… Lonely and sternly, save Mogg Meg… Close to the verge of the rock is…
I need not ask thee, for my sake, To read a book which well may make Its way by native force of wit Without my manual sign to it. Its piquant writer needs from me
1640-1890. O river winding to the sea! We call the old time back to thee; From forest paths and water-ways The century-woven veil we raise.