#AmericanWriters
‘Gingerbread, Go to the head. Your task is done; A soul is won. Take it and go
We are sending you, dear flowers Forth alone to die, Where your gentle sisters may not… O’er the cold graves where you lie… But you go to bring them fadeless…
Brighter shone the golden shadows; On the cool wind softly came The low, sweet tones of happy flow… Singing little Violet’s name. ‘Mong the green trees was it whisp…
THE moon upon the wide sea Placidly looks down, Smiling with her mild face, Though the ocean frown. Clouds may dim her brightness,
Oft, in the silence of the night, When the lonely moon rides high, When wintry winds are whistling, And we hear the owl’s shrill cry, In the quiet, dusky chamber,
From our happy home Through the world we roam One week in all the year, Making winter spring With the joy we bring
‘Give me freshening breeze, my boy… A white and swelling sail, A ship that cuts the dashing waves… And weathers every gale. What life is like a sailor’s life,
Awake! Awake! for the earliest gl… Of golden sunlight shines On the rippling waves, that bright… Beneath the flowering vines. Awake! Awake! for the low, sweet…
We sighing said, “Our Pan is dead… His pipe hangs mute beside the riv… Around it wistful sunbeams quiver, But Music’s airy voice is fled. Spring mourns as for untimely fros…
A little kingdom I possess where thoughts and feelings dwell, And very hard I find the task of governing it well; For passion tempts and troubles me…
Love comes to all soon or late, And maketh gay or sad; For every bird will find its mate, And every lass a lad,
‘Y’ are the maiden posies, And so graced, To be placed Fore damask roses. Yet, though thus respected,
‘I write about the butterfly, It is a pretty thing; And flies about like the birds, But it does not sing. ’First it is a little grub,
‘Bright shines the summer sun, Soft is the summer air; Gayly the wood-birds sing, Flowers are blooming fair. ’But, deep in the dark, cold rock,