#AmericanWriters
“As unto the bow the cord is, So unto the man is woman; Though she bends him, she obeys hi… Though she draws him, yet she foll… Useless each without the other!”
At Atri in Abruzzo, a small town Of ancient Roman date, but scant… One of those little places that ha… Half up the hill, beneath a blazin… And then sat down to rest, as if t…
When winter winds are piercing chi… And through the hawthorn blows the… With solemn feet I tread the hill… That overbrows the lonely vale. O’er the bare upland, and away
The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight. I see the lights of the village
Saint Augustine! well hast thou s… That of our vices we can frame A ladder, if we will but tread Beneath our feet each deed of sham… All common things, each day’s even…
Among the many lives that I have… None I remember more serene and s… More rounded in itself and more co… Than his, who lies beneath this fu… These pines, that murmur in low mo…
I am the God Thor, I am the War God, I am the Thunderer! Here in my Northland, My fastness and fortress,
Into the city of Kambalu, By the road that leadeth to Ispah… At the head of his dusty caravan, Laden with treasure from realms af… Baldacca and Kelat and Kandahar,
Baron Castine of St. Castine Has left his château in the Pyre… And sailed across the western seas… When he went away from his fair de… The birds were building, the woods…
In the long, sleepless watches of… A gentle face —the face of one lon… Looks at me from the wall, where r… The night—lamp casts a halo of pal… Here in this room she died; and so…
On the green little isle of Inchk… Who is it that walks by the shore, So gay with his Highland blue bon… So brave with his targe and claymo… His form is the form of a giant,
Listen, my children, and you shall… Of the midnight ride of Paul Reve… On the eighteenth of April, in Se… Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and…
Witlaf, a king of the Saxons, Ere yet his last he breathed, To the merry monks of Croyland His drinking—horn bequeathed,— That, whenever they sat at their r…
I HEARD the bells on Christmas… Their old, familiar carols play, And wild and sweet The words repeat Of peace on earth, good—will to me…
Between the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to low… Comes a pause in the day’s occupat… That is known as the Children’s H… I hear in the chamber above me