#AmericanWriters
The gladness of our Southern spri… Of summer; and the dreaminess of f… Are parts of her sweet nature. Su… Was Ruth’s, methinks, divinely sp…
Dark in the west the sunset’s somb… Unrolled vast walls the rams of wa… Along whose battlements the battle… Tempestuous beacons; and, with gat… A mighty city, red with ruin and s…
Roaring winds that rocked the crow… High in his eyrie, All night long, and to and fro Swung the cedar and drove the snow Out of the North, have ceased to…
WHAT shall her silence keep Under the sun? Here, where the willows weep And waters run; Here, where she lies asleep,
Here is a tale to tell to rich rel… There was a toad, a Calibanic mon… In whose squat head ambition had e… Most bloated jewel, dear to highes… He was received, though mottled as…
I know a pool, whose crystalline r… Sleeps under walls of granite, whe… Leans looking at its image, line f… Repeated with the sumach and wild-… That redden on the rocks; where, a…
As one, who, journeying westward w… Beholds at length from the up-towe… Far-off, a land unspeakable beauty… Circean peaks and vales of Avalon… And, sinking weary, watches, one b…
Between the rose’s and the canna’s… Beneath her window in the night I… The jeweled dew hangs little stars… The white moonflowers each a spiri… That points the path to mystic sha…
ABOVE the world a glare Of sunset—guns and spears; An army, no one hears, Of mist and air: Long lines of bronze and gold,
An old, lost lane; where can it le… To stony pastures, where the weed Purples its plume, or sails its se… And from one knoll, the vetch make… Trailing its glimmering ribbon on,
When winds go organing through the… On hill and headland, darkly gleam… Meseems I hear sonorous lines Of Iliads that the woods are drea…
Not they the great Who build authority around a Stat… And firm on calumny and party hate Base their ambition. Nor the grea… Who with disturbance make their wa…
Crab-Faced, crab-tongued, with de… Unfriendly and unfriended lived th… Upon the common in her hut, alone, Past which but seldom any villager… Some said she was a witch and rode…
Rock and root and fern and flower They had led him for an hour To the inmost forest, where, In a hollow, green with moss, That the deep ferns trailed across…
LIFE was unkind to him; All things went wrong: Fortune assigned to him Merely a song. Ever a mystery