#AmericanWriters
Then up the orient heights to the… Up and far up and over,-the heaven… Vibrant with rose and with ruby fr… Smiting symphonic fire on the firm… And the East was a priest who ado…
The roses mourn for her who sleeps Within the tomb; For her each lily-flower weeps Dew and perfume. In each neglected flower-bed
The mornings raise Voices of gold in the Almighty’s… The sunsets soar In choral crimson from far shore t… Each is a blast,
The thorn-tree waved a bough of M… And all its branches bent To indicate the wildwood way The Wind and Sunbeam went. A wildrose here, a wildrose there
I Heard his step upon the moss; I glimpsed his shadow in the strea… And thrice I saw the brambles tos… Wherein he vanished like a dream. A great beech aimed a giant stroke
This was her home; one mossy gable… Above the cedars and the locust tr… This was her home, whose beauty no… A lonely memory for melodies The wild birds sing, the wild bird…
Why have you come? to see me in my… A thing to spit on, to despise and… And then to ask me! You, by whom… And then cast by, like some vile r… What shelter could you give me, no…
A lily in a twilight place? A moonflow’r in the lonely night?— Strange beauty of a woman’s face Of wildflow’r-white! The rain that hangs a star’s green…
Secluded, solitary on some underbo… Or cradled in a leaf, 'mid glimmer… Like Puck thou crouchest: Haply w… The slow toadstool comes bulging,… Through loosening loam; or how, ag…
In some quaint Nurnberg maler-atelier Uprummaged. When and where was ne… Nor yet how he obtained it. When,… ’Twas painted-who shall say? itsel…
How long ago it is since we went… Since she and I went Maying long… The years have left my forehead li… Have thinned my hair around the te… Ah, time will change us: yea, I h…
We tightened stirrup; buckled rein… Looked to our saddle-girths again; Shook hands all round; then mounte… The gate swung wide: we said, ‘Go… No time for talk had Bell and I.
A heritage of hopes and fears And dreams and memory, And vices of ten thousand years God gives to thee. A house of clay, the home of Fate…
There are three things of Earth That help us more Than those of heavenly birth That all implore Than Love or Faith or Hope,
In the frail hepaticas,- That the early Springtide tossed, Sapphire-like, along the ways Of the woodlands that she crossed,… I behold, with other eyes,