#AmericanWriters
Why do you strive for greatness, f… Go pluck a bough and wear it. It is as sufficing. My Lord, there are certain barbar… Who tilt their noses
Black riders came from the sea. There was clang and clang of spear… And clash and clash of hoof and he… Wild shouts and the wave of hair In the rush upon the wind:
The trees in the garden rained flo… Children ran there joyously. They gathered the flowers Each to himself. Now there were some
Once I saw mountains angry, And ranged in battle-front. Against them stood a little man; Aye, he was no bigger than my fing… I laughed, and spoke to one near m…
Yes, I have a thousand tongues, And nine and ninety-nine lie. Though I strive to use the one, It will make no melody at my will, But is dead in my mouth.
There was, before me, Mile upon mile Of snow, ice, burning sand. And yet I could look beyond all t… To a place of infinite beauty;
There came whisperings in the wind… “Good-bye! Good-bye!” Little voices called in the darkne… “Good-bye! Good-bye!” Then I stretched forth my arms.
A youth in apparel that glittered Went to walk in a grim forest. There he met an assassin Attired all in garb of old days; He, scowling through the thickets,
I stood upon a highway, And, behold, there came Many strange peddlers. To me each one made gestures, Holding forth little images, sayin…
A learned man came to me once. He said, “I know the way,—come.” And I was overjoyed at this. Together we hastened. Soon, too soon, were we
The wayfarer, Perceiving the pathway to truth, Was struck with astonishment. It was thickly grown with weeds. “Ha,” he said,
Friend, your white beard sweeps th… Why do you stand, expectant? Do you hope to see it In one of your withered days? With your old eyes
Do not weep, maiden, for war is ki… Because your lover threw wild hand… And the affrighted steed ran on al… Do not weep. War is kind.
The impact of a dollar upon the he… Smiles warm red light, Sweeping from the hearth rosily up… With the hanging cool velvet shado… Moving softly upon the door.
Once, I knew a fine song, —It is true, believe me— It was all of birds, And I held them in a basket; When I opened the wicket,