#AmericanWriters #PoemsOfPower
On the white throat of useless pas… That scorched my soul with its bur… I clutched my fingers in murderous… And gathered them close in a grip… For why should I fan, or feed wit…
Talk happiness. The world is sad… Without your woe. No path is whol… Look for the places that are smoot… And speak of them to rest the wear… Of earth; so hurt by one continuou…
When from dawn till noon seems one… And from noon till night another, Oh, then should a little boy come… And creep into the arms of his mot… Snugly creep and fall asleep,
Beside us in our seeking after ple… Through all our restless striving… Through all our search for worldly… There walketh one whom no man like… Silent he follows, veiled of form…
Ho! ho! Father Death! I have won… Another grand soul I have ruined… I, who am licensed by good Christ… Eat and eat at their souls till by… I spoil them, I soil them, and pa…
The fields were bleak and sodden. Not a wing Or note enlivened the depressing w… A soiled and sullen, stubborn snow… Beside the roadway. Winds came m…
She waited in a rose-hued room; A wanton-hearted creature she, But beautiful and bright to see As some great orchid just in bloom… Upon wide cushions stretched at ea…
All roads that lead to God are go… What matters it, your faith, or mi… Both centre at the goal divine Of love’s eternal Brotherhood. The kindly life in house or street…
Some cawing Crows, a hooting Owl, A Hawk, a Canary, an old Marsh-F… One day all meet together To hold a caucus and settle the fa… Of a certain bird (without a mate)…
There was a time when I was confi… That God’s stupendous mystery of… Was mine to know. The wonder of i… New ecstasy and glory to the earth… I heard no voice that uttered it a…
They stood at the garden gate. By the lifting of a lid She might have read her fate In a little thing he did. He plucked a beautiful flower,
I saw a youth, one of God’s favor… Crowned with beauty, and talents,… He had climbed the steep pathway,… To the summit of glory and wealth. The day is breaking, hearts are wa…
The God of the day has vanished, The light from the hills has fled, And the hand of an unseen artist Is painting the west all red. All threaded with gold and crimson…
The year has but one June, dear f… The year has but one June; And when that perfect month doth e… The robin’s song, though loud, tho… Seems never quite in tune.
And now, when poets are singing Their songs of olden days, And now, when the land is ringing With sweet Centennial lays, My muse goes wandering backward,