#AmericanWriters
Clouds of the autumn night, Under the hunter’s moon, Ghostly and windy white, Whither, like leaves wild strewn, Take ye your stormy flight?
The acorn-oak Sullens to sombre crimson all its… And where it hugely heaves A giant head dark as congested blo… The gum-tree towers, against the s…
Through leafy windows of the trees The full moon shows a wrinkled fac… And, trailing dim her draperies Of mist from place to place, The Twilight leads the breeze.
Passion? not hers! who held me wit… One hand among the deep curls of h… I drank the girlhood of her gaze w… She never sighed, nor gave me kiss… So have I seen a clear October po…
They’ve torn the old house down, t… Like some kind mother, in this pla… Hugged by its orchard and its wood… Two sturdy children, strong of rac… This formal place makes no appeal.
There was once a little boy— So my father told me—who Never cared for any toy, But just sweet things, as boys do, Cakes and comfits, cream and ice,
The gray dawn finds me thinking st… Of thee who hadst my thoughts all… Of thee, who art my lute’s sweet s… And of my soul the only light; My star of song to whom I turn
I had not found the road too short… As once I had in days of youth, In that old forest of long ruth, Where my young knighthood broke it… Ere love and it had come to part,
THE black night showed its hungry… And gnawed with sleet at roof and… Beneath the door I heard it breat… A beast that growled in vain. The hunter wind stalked up and dow…
All the roses now are gone, All their glories shed: Here’s a rose that grows not wan, Rose of love to wear upon Your fair breast instead.
I remember, when a child, How within the April wild Once I walked with Mystery In the groves of Arcady…. Through the boughs, before, behind…
Here is a tale for any man or woma… A fool sought Death; and braved h… Among the graves. At last he hear… And something passed him, monstrou… And by a tomb, that reared a broke…
Dormered and verandaed, cool, Locust-girdled, on the hill; Stained with weather—wear, and dul… Streak’d with lichens; every sill Thresholding the beautiful;
Love hath no place in her, Though in her bosom be Love-thoughts and dreams that stir Longings that know not me: Love hath no place in her,
There’s nothing to do in the morni… Till it’s time to get up and dress… Till my nurse comes in to button a… And dress me more or less: Then it’s time to get up, get up,…