#AmericanWriters
Owned a pair o’ skates onc’t.—Tra… Fer ‘em,—stropped ’em on and waded Up and down the crick, a-waitin’ Tel she’d freeze up fit fer skatin… Mildest winter I remember—
Pap’s got his patent-right, and ri… But where’s the peace and comfort… Le’s go a-visitin’ back to Griggs… Back where we ust to be so happy a… The likes of us a-livin’ here! It…
Queenly month of indolent repose! I drink thy breath in sips of rare… As in thy downy lap of clover-bloo… I nestle like a drowsy child and d… The lazy hours away. The zephyr t…
This is 'The old Home by the Mil… Although the old mill, roof and si… The old home, though, and old folk… Old cat-tails, weeds and hartychok… Here, Marg’et, fetch the man a ti…
It was a Jolly Miller lived on th… He looked upon his piller, and the… 'O Mr. Flea! you have bit’ me, And you shall shorely die!' So he scrunched his bones against…
The rain! the rain! the rain! It gushed from the skies and strea… Like awful tears; and the sick man… How pitiful it seemed! And he turned his face away,
Here’s his ragged 'roundabout’; Turn the pockets inside out: See; his pen-knife, lost to use, Rusted shut with apple-juice; Here, with marbles, top and string…
When chirping crickets fainter cry… And pale stars blossom in the sky, And twilight’s gloom has dimmed th… And blurred the butterfly: When locust-blossoms fleck the wal…
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
The world is turned ag’in’ me, And people says, 'They guess That nothin’ else is in me But pure maliciousness!' I git the blame for doin’
Old Man Whiskery-Whee-Kum-Wheez… Lives 'way up in the leaves o’ tre… An’ wunst I slipped up-stairs to… In Aunty’s room, while she 'uz aw… An’ I clumbed up in her cushion-c…
'I deem that God is not disquiete… This in a mighty poet’s rhymes I… And blazoned so forever doth abide Within my soul the legend glorifie… Though awful tempests thunder over…
Go, Winter! Go thy ways! We want… The twitter of the bluebird and th… Leaves ever greener growing, and t… Of Summer’s sun—not thine.— Thy sun, which mocks our need of w…
O touch me with your hands— For pity’s sake! My brow throbs ever on with such a… As only your cool touch may take a… And so, I pray
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