#AmericanWriters
The ant is busy with its house, The bee is at its tree; And by its nest among the boughs The bird makes melody. The Day, reluctant still to leave…
I HAD forgot how, in my day The Sabine fields around me lay In amaranth and asphodel, With many a cold Bandusian well Bright-bubbling by the mountain-wa…
On receiving a bottle of Sherry W… WHAT 'blushing Hippocrene’ is he… Of the 'warm South’ with magic of… Through which again I seem to vie… Of all Cervantes’ dreams, his hea…
John-a-Dreams and Harum-Scarum Came a-riding into town: At the Sign o’ the Jug-and-Jorum There they met with Low-lie-down. Brave in shoes of Romany leather,
The hush of death is on the night.… That loves to whisper to the wind;… That dance with it, are silent: on… No motion mid the fields, as dry a… What light is that? It cannot be…
I Dreamed my soul went wandering… An island dim with mystery; An island that, because of sin, No mortal eye shall ever see. And while I walked, one came, uns…
Low, swallow-swept and gray, Between the orchard and the spring… All its wide windows overflowing h… And crannied doors a-swing, The old barn stands to-day.
A RIVER binds the lonely land, A river like a silver band, To crags and shores of yellow sand… It is a place where kildees cry, And endless marshes eastward lie,
THE woods stretch wild to the mou… And the brush is deep where a man… They have brought the bloodhounds… To the roadside rock where they fo… They have brought the bloodhounds…
This is the heart’s own day: With dreaming eyes Life seems to look away Beyond the skies Into some long-gone May.
The bitter-sweet and red-haw in he… And in her hair pale berries of th… She haunts the coves and every Ca… The Indian, Autumn, wandered from… Beside the sea, upon a rock, she s…
In the waste places, in the dreadf… When the wood whispers like a wand… And silence sits and listens to th… Or, 'mid the rocks, to some wild t… Bat-browed thou wadest with thy wi…
First I asked the honeybee, Busy in the balmy bowers; Saying, ‘Sweetheart, tell it me: Have you seen her, honeybee? She is cousin to the flowers
O heart,-that beat the bird’s blit… The blithe bird’s strain, and unde… The song it sang to leaf and bud,- What dost thou in the wood? O soul,-that kept the brook’s glad…
BLACK clouds hung low and heavy, Above the sunset glare; And in the garden dimly We wandered here and there. So full of strife, of trouble