#AmericanWriters
NOT ours to clamor shame on you, Nor fling a bitter blame on you, Nor brand a cruel name on you, That evil name of treason, You who have heard the ivory flute…
THE horns of the moon are tipped With pearl. Her lover, wooed By charms and won, Endymion, Inherits quietude. White the gleam
The day was hotter than words can… So hot the jelly-fish wouldn’t jel… The halibut went all to butter, And the catfish had only force to… A faint sea-mew - aye, though some…
THESE palms weave shadows of del… But the truant heart flies forth To birch-boles glistening more tha… In the forests of the North.
RED, white, blue, the flag that l… Stripes as red as blood well shed… Now ’tis ours to storm the towers… Freedom’s sons who front the guns… Fly the flag from dome and steeple…
The first faint dawn was flushing… When, dreamland still bewildering… I looked out to the oak that, wint… —a winter wild with war and woe an… Beyond my casement had been void o…
As she sped from dawn to gloaming,… Did the waves from her proud bows… That her maiden voyage was tending… Where after the shock and the rend… Oh, her name shall be tale and tok…
GOD made a day of blue and gold, Sweet as a violet, As merry as a marigold; It may be shining yet In some blest vale, some dreamy de…
(A medieval Spanish legend slande… ROMAQUIA sat and wept her Lace mantilla full of tears. King Abit laid by his scepter, Left the Council of the Peers.
THIS tattered catechism weaves a… Invoking from the Long Ago a chil… Who deemed her fledgling soul so s… She practised with a candle-flame… Burning small fingers, that would…
THE cup, the ruby cup Whence anguish drips, At last is lifted up Against our lips. Though we, till seas run dry,
NOT yet hath Nature, lovely colo… Bestirred her from creative dream… Soft flame upon the woods, 'nay,… One pleading maple-tip In carmine; all the waiting world…
I. In South Africa Over the lonesome African plain The stars look down, like eyes of… A bumping ride across gullies and… Now a grumble and now a jest,
GALLANTLY swung the old carpen… Drums and fifes in his tread, But softly he crossed the braided… Gently he stroked her head. ‘More folks were there at the stat…
A stranger, schooled to gentle art… He stept before the curious throng… His path into our waiting hearts Already paved by song. Full well we knew his choristers,