#AmericanWriters
Little Girlie Good Enough Lives right there across the stree… Neater than a powder-puff, Yes she is, and just as sweet: Bows and ribbons on her hair,
Christmas Eve is here at last. And I’m happy as can be. Going to have a Christmas-tree, And more toys than any past Christmas saw or ever had,
It is not well For me to dwell On what upon that day befell, On that dark day of fall befell; When through the landscape, bowed…
An agate-black, your roguish eyes Claim no proud lineage of the skie… No starry blue; but of good earth The reckless witchery and mirth. Looped in your raven hair’s repose…
His Birthday, October the 7th, 19… RILEY, whose pen has made the wo… Whose Art has kept you young thro… Brimming our hearts with laughter… Holding her faith pure to the very…
THE season of the rose and peace… It could not last. There’s heartbreak in the hills an… Of sorrow in the rain-lashed plain… While Earth regards, aghast,
The dim verbena drugs the dusk With lemon-heavy odours where The heliotropes breathe drowsy mus… Into the jasmine-dreamy air; The moss-rose bursts its dewy husk
Why speak of Giamschid rubies Whence rosy starlight drips? I know a richer crimson, The ruby of her lips. Why speak of pearls of Oman
The shivering wind sits in the oak… Twisted and tortured, nevermore ar… Grief and decay sit with it; they,… Autumnal touch makes hectic-red th… Of all the oak leaves; desolating,…
The vat-like cups of the fungus, f… With the rain that fell last night… Are casks of wine that the elves d… For revels the moon did light. The owlet there with her ‘Who-oh-…
Booted and spurred he rode toward… A rose, from the woman who loved h… Lay warm with her kisses there in… And the battle beacons were burnin… As over the draw he galloping went…
Far as the eye can see, in domes a… Buttress and curve, ruins of shift… In whose wild making wind and sea… The white dunes stretch. The wind… Striving for strange effects that…
Where are they, that song and tale Tell of? lands our childhood knew? Sea-locked Faerylands that trail Morning summits, dim with dew, Crimson o’er a crimson sail.
The flute, whence Summer’s dreamy… Drew music, ripening the pinched k… The burly chestnut and the chinqua… Red-rounding-out the oval haws and… Now Winter crushes to his stormy…
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…