#AmericanWriters
Four little chests all in a row, Dim with dust, and worn by time, All fashioned and filled, long ago… By children now in their prime. Four little keys hung side by side…
‘Here is the bracelet For good little May To wear on her arm By night and by day. When it shines like the sun,
CHEERFUL voices by the sea-sid… Echoed through the summer air, Happy children, fresh and rosy, Sang and sported freely there, Often turning friendly glances,
‘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,
Thistledown in prison sings: Bright shines the summer sun, Soft is the summer air; Gayly the wood-birds sing, Flowers are blooming fair.
‘Healfast, healfast, ye hero wound… O knight, be quickly strong! Beloved strife For fame and life, Oh, tarry not too long!’
‘J’avais une colombe blanche, J’avais un blanc petit pigeon, Tous deux volaient, de branche en… Jusqu’au faîte de mon dongeon: Mais comme un coup de vent d’autom…
O flower at my window Why blossom you so fair, With your green and purple cup Upturned to sun and air? ‘I bloom, blithesome Bessie,
‘Beds to the front of them, Beds to the right of them, Beds to the left of them, Nobody blundered. Beamed at by hungry souls,
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…
Little shadows, little shadows Dancing on the chamber wall, While I sit beside the hearthston… Where the red flames rise and fall… Caps and nightgowns, caps and nigh…
Swallow, swallow, neighbor swallow… Starting on your autumn flight, Pause a moment at my window, Twitter softly your good-night; For the summer days are over,
‘The puir auld folk at home, ye mi… Are frail and failing sair; And weel I ken they’d miss me, la… Gin I come hame nae mair. The grist is out, the times are ha…
Hither, hither, from thy home, Airy sprite, I bid thee come! Born of roses, fed on dew, Charms and potions canst thou brew… Bring me here, with elfin speed,
Love comes to all soon or late, And maketh gay or sad; For every bird will find its mate, And every lass a lad,