#AmericanWriters
Not on the lute, nor harp of many… Shall all men praise the Master o… Our life is brief, one saith, and… And skilled must be the laureates… Silent, O lips that utter foolish…
There was a gentle hostler (And blessed be his name!) He opened up the stable The night Our Lady came. Our Lady and Saint Joseph,
Now is the rhymer’s honest trade A thing for scornful laughter made… The merchant’s sneer, the clerk’s… These are the burden of our pain. Because of you did this befall,
I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth’s sweet flowing… A tree that looks at God all day,
(For S.M.L.) I like to look at the blossomy tra… But it isn’t half so fine a sight… When it all was covered over with… And over the crisp and radiant roa…
Because we never build a nest And no one of us ever sings, We are the butt of every jest That strutting loud-mouthed robin… Unless the field with laughter rin…
When I am tired of earnest men, Intense and keen and sharp and cle… Pursuing fame with brush or pen Or counting metal disks forever, Then from the halls of Shadowland
When Dawn strides out to wake a d… Across green fields and yellow hil… The little twittering birds laugh… And poise triumphant on his shinin… He bears a sword of flame but not…
Severe against the pleasant arc of… The great stone box is cruelly dis… The street becomes more dreary fro… And vagrant breezes touch its wall… Here sullen convicts in their chai…
(For Edward J. Wheeler) Within the Jersey City shed The engine coughs and shakes its h… The smoke, a plume of red and whit… Waves madly in the face of night.
1814-1914 When, on a novel’s newly printed p… We find a maudlin eulogy of sin, And read of ways that harlots wand… And of sick souls that writhe in h…
Whenever I walk to Suffern along… I go by a poor old farmhouse with… I suppose I’ve passed it a hundre… And look at the house, the tragic… I never have seen a haunted house,…
For blows on the fort of evil That never shows a breach, For terrible life-long races To a goal no foot can reach, For reckless leaps into darkness
“Dulce et decorum est” The bugle echoes shrill and sweet, But not of war it sings to-day. The road is rhythmic with the feet Of men-at-arms who come to pray.
1 When you had played with lif… 2 And made it drink and lust… 3 You flung it back into God’… 4 And thought you did a nobl… 5 “Lo, I have lived and loved…