#AmericanWriters
The moon begins her stately ride Across the summer sky; The happy wavelets lash the shore,… The tide is rising high. Beneath some friendly blade of gra…
AN old worn harp that had been pl… Till all its strings were loose an… Joy, Hate and Fear, each one essa… To play. But each in turn had fou… No sweet responsiveness of sound
Air a—gittin’ cool an’ coolah, Frost a—comin’ in de night, Hicka’ nuts an’ wa’nuts fallin’, Possum keepin’ out o’ sight. Tu’key struttin’ in de ba’nya’d,
In the silence of my heart, I will spend an hour with thee, When my love shall rend apart All the veil of mystery: All that dim and misty veil
When de fiddle gits to singin’ out… An’ you 'mence to feel a ticklin’… Ef you t’ink you got 'uligion an’… You jes’ bettah tek a hint an’ git… Case de time is mighty temptin’ wh…
O li’l’ lamb out in de col’, De Mastah call you to de fol’, O li’l’ lamb! He hyeah you bleatin’ on de hill; Come hyeah an’ keep yo’ mou’nin’ s…
I think that though the clouds be… That though the waves dash o’er th… Yet after while the light will com… And in calm waters safe at home The bark will anchor.
De ol’ time’s gone, de new time’s… Wid all hits fuss an’ feddahs; I done fu’got de joy an’ cheah We knowed all kin’s o’ weddahs, I done fu’got each ol’—time hymn
Men may sing of their Havanas, el… The real or fancied virtues of the… But I worship Nicotina at a diffe… And she sits enthroned in glory in… It ‘s as fragrant as the meadows w…
Why was it that the thunder voice… Should call thee, studious, from t… Where calm—eyed Pallas with still… And charge thee seek the turmoil o… What bade thee hear the voice and…
Win’ a—blowin’ gentle so de san’ l… San’ a little heavy f’om de rain, All de pa’ms a—wavin’ an’ a—weavin… Sighin’ lak a sinnah—soul in pain. Alligator grinnin’ by de ol’ lagoo…
Within a London garret high, Above the roofs and near the sky, My ill—rewarding pen I ply To win me bread. This little chamber, six by four,
I sit upon the old sea wall, And watch the shimmering sea, Where soft and white the moonbeams… Till, in a fantasy, Some pure white maiden’s funeral p…
THE trees bend down along the str… Where anchored swings my tiny boat… The day is one to drowse and dream And list the thrush’s throttling n… When music from his bosom bleeds
“I am but clay,” the sinner plead, Who fed each vain desire. “Not only clay,” another said, “But worse, for thou art mire.”