#AmericanWriters
In this, the City of my Disconten… Sometimes there comes a whisper fr… “Romance, Romance—is here. No Hi… Is quite so strange. No Citadel o… By Sinbad found, held half such l…
He paid a Swede twelve bits an ho… Just to invent a fancy style To spread the celebration paint So it would show at least a mile. Some things they did I will not t…
No doubt to-morrow I will hide My face from you, my King. Let me rejoice this Sunday noon, And kneel while gray priests sing. It is not wisdom to forget.
Friends, I will not cease hoping… Such things I see, and some of th… Though now or streets are harsh an… Though our strong youths are strid… Friends, that sweet town, that won…
(A Poem Game.) “And when the Queen of Sheba hear… [The men’s leader rises as he sees… Men’s Leader: The Queen of Sh… [He bows three times.]
A BROADSIDE DISTRI… Censers are swinging, Over the town; Censers are swinging, Look overhead!
Let not young souls be smothered o… They do quaint deeds and fully fla… It is the world’s one crime its ba… Its poor are ox-like, limp and lea… Not that they starve; but starve s…
Hungry for music with a desperate… I prowled abroad, I threaded thro… The evening crowd was clamoring an… Vulgar and pitiful—my heart bowed… Till I remembered duller hours ma…
[This is the hymn to Eleanor,… This is a song to the white-armed… Cold in the breast as the frost-wr… Whose feet are slow on the hills o… Whose round mouth rules by whisper…
I hate this yoke; for the world’s… Knowing 'twill weigh as much on yo… Knowing you love your freedom dear… Knowing that love unchained has be… Our one great wine (yet spent too…
Twelve snails went walking after n… They’d creep an inch or so, Then stop and bug their eyes And blow. Some folks . . . are . . . deadly…
In fairyland the little boys Would rather fight than eat their… They like to chase a gauze-winged… And catch and beat him till he squ… Sometimes they come to sleeping me…
The moon is but a candle-glow That flickers thro’ the gloom: The starry space, a castle hall: And Earth, the children’s room, Where all night long the old trees…
This is the song The spice-tree sings: “Hunger and fire, Hunger and fire, Sky-born Beauty—
A little colt—broncho, loaned to t… To be broken in time without fury… Yet black crows flew past you, sho… Calling “Beware,” with lugubrious… The butterflies there in the bush…