#Americans #XIXCentury #XXCentury
She kneels with haggard eyes and h… Unto the Christ upon the Cross: Her gown is torn; her feet are bar… What is this thing she begs of him… The gentle Christ upon the Cross?
She mutters and stoops by the lone… The little green leaves are hushed… An owl in an oak cries’Who-oh-who… And a fox barks back where the moo… The moss that sways to a sudden br…
Thou sit’st among the sunny silenc… Of terraced hills and woodland gal… Thou utterance of all calm melodie… Thou lutanist of Earth’s most aff… Where no false note intrudes
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…
An Oldham-County Weather Philoso… ‘Who is Corncob Jones?’ you say. Beateningest man and talkingest: Talk and talk th’ enduring day, Never even stop to rest,
There are three things of Earth That help us more Than those of heavenly birth That all implore Than Love or Faith or Hope,
What vague traditions do the golde… What legends do the dawns Inscribe in fire on Heaven’s azur… The red sun colophons? What ancient stories do the waters…
When you and I in the hills went… You and I in the bright May weath… The birds, that sang on the boughs… There in the green of the woods, k… All that my heart was saying low,
Why do I love you, who have never… My heart encouragement or any caus… Is it because, as earth is held of… Your soul holds mine by some myste… Perhaps, unseen of me, within your…
Wherein is it so beautiful? In all things dim and all things c… In silence, that is built of leave… And wind and spray of waterfall; And, golden as the half-ripe sheav…
The partridge-berry flecks with fl… That leads to ferny hollows where… Drones on the aster. Far away the… Points its deep sapphire with a gl… Here from this height where, clust…
There is a woodland witch who lies With bloom-bright limbs and beam-b… Among the water-flags that rank The slow brook’s heron-haunted ban… The dragon-flies, brass-bright and…
Pessimist There is never a thing we dream or… But was dreamed and done in the ag… Everything’s old; there is nothing… And so it will be while the world…
She sits among the iris stalks Of babbling brooks; and leans for… Among the river’s lily flowers, Or on their whiteness walks: Above dark forest pools, gray rock…
The hat he wore was full of holes, And his battered shoes were worn t… His shirt was a rag, held together… And his trousers patched with outs… A negro tramp, a roustabout,
