#AmericanWriters
The rocky nook with hilltops three Looked eastward from the farms, And twice each day the flowing sea Took Boston in its arms; The men of yore were stout and poo…
Butler, fetch the ruby wine, Which with sudden greatness fills… Pour for me who in my spirit Fail in courage and performance; Bring the philosophic stone,
Who shall tell what did befall, Far away in time, when once, Over the lifeless ball, Hung idle stars and suns? What god the element obeyed?
There is one mind common to all individual men. Every man is an inlet to the same and to all of the same. He that is once admitted to the right of reason is made a freeman of the whol...
Wise and polite,—and if I drew Their several portraits, you would… Chaucer had no such worthy crew, Nor Boccace in Decameron. We crossed Champlain to Keesevill…
Daughter of Heaven and Earth, coy… With sudden passion languishing, Maketh all things softly smile, Painteth pictures mile on mile, Holds a cup with cowslip—wreaths,
Man was made of social earth, Child and brother from his birth; Tethered by a liquid cord Of blood through veins of kindred… Next his heart the fireside band
LONG I followed happy guides, I could never reach their sides; Their step is forth, and, ere the… Breaks up their leaguer, and away. Keen my sense, my heart was young,
Because I was content with these… Low open meads, slender and sluggi… And found a home in haunts which o… The partial wood—gods overpaid my… And granted me the freedom of thei…
I heard or seemed to hear the chid… Say, Pilgrim, why so late and slo… Am I not always here, thy summer… Is not my voice thy music, morn an… My breath thy healthful climate in…
I SEE all human wits Are measured but a few; Unmeasured still my Shakespeare s… Lone as the blessed Jew.
Thee, dear friend, a brother sooth… Not with flatteries, but truths, Which tarnish not, but purify To light which dims the morning’s… I have come from the spring—woods,
Who knows this or that? Hark in the wall to the rat: Since the world was, he has gnawed… Of his wisdom, of his fraud What dost thou know?
If I could put my woods in song And tell what’s there enjoyed, All men would to my gardens throng… And leave the cities void. In my plot no tulips blow,—
What boots it, thy virtue, What profit thy parts, While one thing thou lackest, The art of all arts! The only credentials,