#AmericanWriters
AFTER READING HIS AU… POOR victim of that vulture curs… That hovers o’er the universe, With ready talons quick to strike In every human heart alike,
There’s a space for good to bloom… Every heart of man or woman,— And however wild or human, Or however brimmed with gall, Never heart may beat without it;
O heart of mine, we shouldn’t Worry so! What we’ve missed of calm we could… Have, you know! What we’ve met of stormy pain,
You think it is a sorry thing That I am blind. Your pitying Is welcome to me; yet indeed, I think I have but little need Of it. Though you may marvel much
‘Now who shall say he loves me not… He wooed her first in an atmospher… Of tender and low-breathed sighs; But the pang of her laugh went cut… To the soul of the enterprise;
Who shall sing a simple ditty abou… Dainty-fine and delicate as any be… That dandles high the dainty bird… Tremulously tender song of greetin… Bravest, too, of all the trees!—no…
Oh luxury! Beyond the heat And dust of town, with dangling fe… Astride the rock below the dam, In the cool shadows where the calm Rests on the stream again, and all
Old October’s purt’ nigh gone, And the frosts is comin’ on Little heavier every day— Like our hearts is thataway! Leaves is changin’ overhead
A lover said, ‘O Maiden, love me… For I must go away: And should ANOTHER ever come t… Of love—What WILL you say?’ And she let fall a royal robe of h…
Season of snows, and season of flo… Seasons of loss and gain!— Since grief and joy must alike be… Why do we still complain? Ever our failing, from sun to sun,
He leant against a lamp-post, lost In some mysterious reverie: His head was bowed; his arms were… He yawned, and glanced evasively: Uncrossed his arms, and slowly put
The touches of her hands are like… Of velvet snowflakes; like the tou… The peach just brushes 'gainst the… The flossy fondlings of the thistl… Caught in the crinkle of a leaf of…
A strange life—strangely passed! We may not read the soul When God has folded up the scroll In death at last. We may not—dare not say of one
DEAD! my wayward boy—_my own_— Not _the Law’s!_ but _mine_—the g… God’s free gift to me alone, Sanctified by motherhood. ‘Bad,’ you say: Well, who is not?
The pipes of Pan! Not idler now a… Than when their cunning fashioner… The pith of music from them: Yet… And me their notes are blown in ma… Lost in our murmurings for that ol…