#AmericanWriters
Mourn that which will not come aga… The joy, the strength of early yea… Bow down thy head, and let thy tea… Water the grave where hope lies sl… For tears are like a summer rain,
The sun is banished, The daylight vanished, No rosy traces Are left behind. Here in the meadow
I made a truce last night with So… The queen of tears, the foe of sle… To keep her tents until the morrow… Nor send such dreams to make me we… Before the lusty day was springing…
I met him down upon the pier, His eyes were wild and sad, And something in them made me fear That he was going mad. So, being of a prudent sort,
This is the time when larks are si… And higher still ascending and mor… This is the time when many a fleec… Runs lamb-like on the pastures of… This is the time when most I love…
You like the trifling triolet: Well, here are three or four. Unless your likings I forget, You like the trifling triolet. Against my conscience I abet
Would you like to see a city given… Soul and body, to a tyrannising ga… If you would, there’s little need… For St. Andrews is the abject cit… It is surely quite superfluous to…
Brown was my friend, and faithful’… He came to see me in the twilight… I rose politely and invited him To take a seat’how heavily he sa… He sat upon the sofa, where my hat…
with apologies to Lord Tennyson O swallow-tailed purveyor of colle… O skilled to please the student fr… Most honoured publican of Scotlan… Milton, a name to adorn the Cross…
Ye who will help me in my dying pa… Speak not a word: let all your voi… Let me but hear some soft harmonio… And I shall die at peace. Music entrances, soothes, and gran…
So in the village inn the poet dwe… His honey-dew was gone; only the p… His cousin’s work, her empty labou… But still he sniffed it, still a f… And lingered all about the broider…
If a pleasant lawn there grow By the showers caressed, Where in all the seasons blow Flowers gaily dressed, Where by handfuls one may win
Life is a house where many chamber… And all the doors will yield to hi… Save one, whereof men say, behind… The haunting secret. He who keeps… Keeps it securely, smiles perchanc…
Gone is the glory from the hills, The autumn sunshine from the mere, Which mourns for the declining yea… In all her tributary rills. A sense of change obscurely chills
In youth with diligence he toiled A Roman nose to gain, But though a decent pug was spoile… A pug it did remain.