#AmericanWriters
Oh, the littles that remain! Scent of mint out in the lane; Flare of window; sound of bees; '… These, but these. Three times sitting down to bread;
A long the thousand roads of Fran… Now there, and here, swift as a gl… A cloud, a mist blown down the sky… Good Joan of Arc goes riding by. In Domremy at candlelight,
Dark, thinned, beside the wall of… The box dripped in the air; Its odor through my house was blow… Into the chamber there. Remote and yet distinct the scent,
Brother of mine, good monk with co… Walled from that world which thou… And pacing thy green close beyond… I send my heart to thee. Down gust-sweet walks, bordered by…
Fathered by March, the daffodils… First, all the air grew keen with… And once a thrush from out some ho… On a field’s edge, where whitening… Fluted the last unto the budding y…
Lydia is gone this many a year, Yet when the lilacs stir, In the old gardens far or near, The house is full of her. They climb the twisted chamber sta…
Battles nor songs can from oblivio… But Fame upon a white deed loves… From out that cup of water Sidney… Not one drop has been spilled.
Snatch the departing mood; Make yours its emptying reed, and… Faith in the time, faith in our co… Faith in the least of good: Song cannot fail if these its spir…
Glad that I live am I; That the sky is blue; Glad for the country lanes, And the fall of dew. After the sun the rain;
Wild rockets blew along the lane; The tall white gentians too were t… The mullein stalks were brave agai… Of blossoms was the bramble bare; And toward the pasture bars below
An apple orchard smells like wine; A succory flower is blue; Until Grief touched these eyes of… Such things I never knew. And now indeed I know so plain
Her eyes be like the violets, Ablow in Sudbury lane; When she doth smile, her face is s… As blossoms after rain; With grief I think of my gray hai…
This is the house where I was bre… The wind blows through it without… The wind bitten by the roadside mi… Here brake I loaf, here climbed t… The fuchsia on the window sill;
I am too near, too clear a thing f… A flower of mullein in a crack of… The villagers half see, or not at… Part of the weather, like the wind… You love to pluck the different, a…
The spicewood burns along the gray… In moist unchimneyed places, in a… That whips it all before, and all… Into one thick, rude flame, now lo… It is the first, the homeliest thi…