#AmericanWriters
Unto what end, I ask, unto what e… Is all this effort, this unrest an… Work that avails not? strife and m… Ambitions vain that rack our heart… Did labor but avail! did it defend
Behold a hag whom Life denies a k… As he rides questward in knighterr… Only when he hath passed her is it… To know, too late, the Fairy in d…
All day the primroses have thought… Their golden heads close-haremed f… All day the mystic moonflowers sil… Veiled snowy faces, that no bee mi… Or butterfly that, weighed with po…
Low clouds, the lightning veins an… Torn from the forest of the storm, Sweep westward like enormous leave… O’er field and farm. And in the west, on burning skies,
Between the darkness and the day As, lost in doubt, I went my way, I met a shape, as faint as fair, With star-like blossoms in its hai… Its body, which the moon shone thr…
Those were the days of doubt. How… It all comes back! This ribbon, s… Brings that far past so very near I lose my own identity, And seem two beings: one that’s he…
Miranda-like, above the world she… The wand of Prospero; and, beauti… Ariel the airy, Caliban the dull, Lightning and steam, are her unwil…
LIFE was unkind to him; All things went wrong: Fortune assigned to him Merely a song. Ever a mystery
Sodden and shivering, in mud and r… Half in the light that serves but… The blackness of an alley and the… Homeward of wretchedness in tatter… A boy stands crouched; big drops o…
Hearts, that have cheered us ever,… With words that helped us on the r… The hard, long road of life to who… More than the heart can ever hope… Are they not touchstones, soul-tra…
She stood waist-deep among the bri… Above in twisted lengths were roll… The sunset’s tangled whorls of gol… Blown from the west’s cloud-pillar… And in the hush no sound did mar,
White as a lily moulded of Earth’… That eve the moon bloomed in a hya… Soft in the gleaming glens the win… Faint as a phantom clothed in unse… Bright as a naiad’s leap, from shi…
Sunflowers wither and lilies die, Poppies are pods of seeds; The first red leaves on the pathwa… Like blood of a heart that bleeds. Weary alway will it be to-day,
Were I an artist, Lydia, I Would paint you as you merit, Not as my eyes, but dreams, descry… Not in the flesh, but spirit. The canvas I would paint you on
I dream again I 'm in the lane That leads me home through night a… Again the fence I see and, dense, The garden, wet and sweet of sense… Then mother’s window, with its sta…