#AmericanWriters
‘Strike the sails!’ King Olaf sai… ‘Never shall men of mine take flig… Never away from battle I fled, Never away from my foes! Let God dispose
The cabin windows have grown blank As eyeballs of the dead; No more the glancing sunbeams burn On the gilt letters of the stern, But on the figure-head;
The twilight is sad and cloudy, The wind blows wild and free, And like the wings of sea—birds Flash the white caps of the sea. But in the fisherman’s cottage
Thus ran the Student’s pleasant r… Of Eginhard and love and youth; Some doubted its historic truth, But while they doubted, ne’erthele… Saw in it gleams of truthfulness,
A traveling Scholastic affixing h… of the College. _Scholastic._ There, that is my g… Hung up as a challenge to all the… One hundred and twenty-five propos…
In those days said Hiawatha, “Lo! how all things fade and peris… From the memory of the old men Pass away the great traditions, The achievements of the warriors,
There is a quiet spirit in these w… That dwells where’er the gentle so… Where, underneath the white—thorn,… The wild flowers bloom, or, kissin… The leaves above their sunny palms…
In the village churchyard she lies… Dust is in her beautiful eyes, No more she breathes, nor feels, n… At her feet and at her head Lies a slave to attend the dead,
Becalmed upon the sea of Thought, Still unattained the land it sough… My mind, with loosely-hanging sail… Lies waiting the auspicious gales. On either side, behind, before,
In the market—place of Bruges sta… Thrice consumed and thrice rebuild… town. As the summer morn was breaking, o… And the world threw off the darkne…
Yes, the Year is growing old, And his eye is pale and bleared! Death, with frosty hand and cold, Plucks the old man by the beard, Sorely, sorely!
Leafless are the trees; their purp… Spread themselves abroad, like ree… Rising silent In the Red Sea of the winter suns… From the hundred chimneys of the v…
One Autumn night, in Sudbury town… Across the meadows bare and brown, The windows of the wayside inn Gleamed red with fire-light throug… Of woodbine, hanging from the eave…
For thee was a house built Ere thou wast born, For thee was a mould meant Ere thou of mother camest. But it is not made ready,
When I compare What I have lost with what I have… What I have missed with what atta… Little room do I find for pride. I am aware