#AmericanWriters
The air falls chill; The whippoorwill Pipes lonesomely behind the Hill: The dusk grows dense, The silence tense;
Say something to me! I’ve waited… Waited and wondered in vain; Only a sentence would fall like a… Over this listening pain— Over a silence that glowers and fr…
_The Child-World—long and long si… A Fairy Paradise!— How always fair it was and fresh a… How every affluent hour heaped hea… With treasures of surprise!
A good man never dies— In worthy deed and prayer And helpful hands, and honest eyes… If smiles or tears be there: Who lives for you and me—
I have sipped, with drooping lashe… Dreamy draughts of Verzenay; I have flourished brandy-smashes In the wildest sort of way; I have joked with 'Tom and Jerry’
When Little Claude was naughty wu… At dinner-time, an’ said He won’t say '_Thank you_' to his… She maked him go to bed An’ stay two hours an’ not git up,…
A dark, tempestuous night; the sta… With shrouds of fog; an inky, jet-… The firmament; and where the moon… An hour agone seems like the darke… The weird wind—furious at its demo…
O The Little Lady’s dainty As the picture in a book, And her hands are creamy-whiter Than the water-lilies look; Her laugh’s the undrown’d music
Reach your hand to me, my friend, With its heartiest caress— Sometime there will come an end To its present faithfulness— Sometime I may ask in vain
The frightened herds of clouds acr… Trample the sunshine down, and cha… Into the dusky forest-lands of gra… And sombre twilight. Far and fain… The wild goose trails his harrow,…
Wasn’t it pleasant, O brother min… In those old days of the lost suns… Of youth—when the Saturday’s chor… And the 'Sunday’s wood’ in the ki… And we went visiting, ‘me and you,…
Our three cats is Maltese cats, An’ they’s two that’s white,— An’ bofe of 'em’s _deef_—an’ that’… 'Cause their _eyes_ ain’t right.— Uncle say that _Huxley_ say
Las’ July—an’, I persume 'Bout as hot As the ole Gran’-Jury room Where they sot!— Fight 'twixt Mike an’ Dock McGri…
If I knew what poets know, Would I write a rhyme Of the buds that never blow In the summer-time? Would I sing of golden seeds
Time of crisp and tawny leaves, And of tarnished harvest sheaves, And of dusty grasses—weeds— Thistles, with their tufted seeds Voyaging the Autumn breeze