#AmericanWriters
My Mary, O my Mary! The simmer-skies are blue; The dawnin’ brings the dazzle, An’ the gloamin’ brings the dew,— The mirk o’ nicht the glory
One 's the pictur’ of his Pa, And the _other_ of her Ma— Jes the bossest pair o’ babies ‘at… And we love ’em as the bees Loves the blossoms of the trees,
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
When Autumn shakes the rambo-tree… It’s a long, sweet way across the… The bird sings low as the bumble-b… It’s a long, sweet way across the… The poor shote-pig he says, says h…
Neglected now is the old guitar And moldering into decay; Fretted with many a rift and scar That the dull dust hides away, While the spider spins a silver st…
At Union Station 'Ll where in the world my eyes has… Ef I hain’t missed that train ag’… Chuff! And whistle! And toot! An… But blast and blister the dasted t…
Uncle Sidney, when he wuz here, Maked me a squirtgun out o’ some Elder-bushes ‘at growed out near Where wuz the brickyard—’way out c… To where the toll-gate come!
At Noey’s house—when they arrived… How snug seemed everything, and ne… The little picket-fence, and littl… It’s little pulley, and its little… All glib as clock-work, as it clic…
'I’m home again, my dear old Room… I’m home again, and happy, too, As, peering through the brightenin… I find myself alone with you: Though brief my stay, nor far away…
How many of my selves are dead? The ghosts of many haunt me: Lo, The baby in the tiny bed With rockers on, is blanketed And sleeping in the long ago;
This Pan is but an idle god, I gu… Since all the fair midsummer of my… He loiters listlessly by woody str… Soaking the lush glooms up with la… Or drowsing while the maiden-winds…
I had fed the fire and stirred it,… Snapped their saucy little fingers… And in dressing-gown and slippers,… throne’— The old split-bottomed rocker—and…
Out of the hitherwhere into the Y… The land that the Lord’s love res… Where one may rely on the friends… And the smiles that greet him alon… Where the mother that left you yea…
Folks has be’n to town, and Sahry Fetched 'er home a pet canary—, And of all the blame’, contrary, Aggervatin’ things alive! I love music—that I love it
What intuition named thee?—Throug… Of the awed soul came the command… Into the mother-heart, foretelling… Should palpitate with his whose ra… Sing on while daisies bloom and la…