#AmericanWriters
_Curly Locks! Curly Locks! wilt… Thou shalt not wash the dishes, no… But sit on a cushion and sew a fin… And feast upon strawberries, sugar… Curly Locks! Curly Locks! wilt t…
Tell you what I like the best— ‘Long about knee-deep in June, ’Bout the time strawberries melts On the vine,—some afternoon Like to jes’ git out and rest,
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
Like a drift of faded blossoms Caught in a slanting rain, His fingers glimpsed down the stri… In a tremulous refrain: Patter and tinkle, and drip and dr…
‘He is my friend,’ I said,— ‘Be patient!’ Overhead The skies were drear and dim; And lo! the thought of him Smited on my heart—and then
He seemed so strange to me, every… In manner, and form, and size, From the boy I knew but yesterday… I could hardly believe my eyes! To hear his name called over there…
O the waiting in the watches of th… In the darkness, desolation, and c… The awful hush that holds us shut… The ever weary memory that ever we… Recounting ever over every aching…
O her beautiful eyes! they are as… On the violet’s bloom when the mor… And the light of their love is the… O’er the meadows of Spring where… As the morn shirts the mists and t…
Ah, Almon Keefer! what a boy you… With your back-tilted hat and care… And open, honest, fresh, fair face… With their all-varying looks of pl… And joyous interest in flower and…
The Beautiful City! Forever Its rapturous praises resound; We fain would behold it—but never A glimpse of its dory is found: We slacken our lips at the tender
They called him Mr. What’s-his-na… From where he was, or why he came, Or when, or what he found to do, Nobody in the city knew. He lived, it seemed, shut up alone
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!
Tomps 'ud allus haf to say Somepin’ ‘bout ’his mother’s way.'… _He_ lived hard-like—never jined Any church of any kind.— 'It was Mother’s way,' says he,
Would that the winds might only bl… As they blew in the golden long ag… Laden with odors of Orient isles Where ever and ever the sunshine s… And the bright sands blend with th…
Oh, the Circus-Day parade! How t… And how the glossy horses tossed t… As the rattle and the rhyme of the… Filled all the hungry hearts of us… How the grand band-wagon shone wit…