#AmericanWriters
The little Jesus came to town; The wind blew up, the wind blew do… Out in the street the wind was bol… Now who would house Him from the… Then opened wide a stable door,
It is too early for white boughs,… For snows. From out the hedge the… A few last flakes, ragged and deli… Down the stripped roads the maples… Soft, ’wildering fires. Stained a…
Oh, gray and tender is the rain, That drips, drips on the pane! A hundred things come in the door, The scent of herbs, the thought of… I see the pool out in the grass,
Along the pastoral ways I go, To get the healing of the trees, The ghostly news the hedges know; To hive me honey like the bees, Against the time of snow.
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.
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…
A rhyme of good Death’s inn! My love came to that door; And she had need of many things, The way had been so sore. My love she lifted up her head,
When I consider Life and its few… A wisp of fog betwixt us and the s… A call to battle, and the battle d… Ere the last echo dies within our… A rose choked in the grass; an hou…
There’s never a rose upon the bu… And never a bud on any tree; In wood and field nor hint nor sig… Of one green thing for you or me. Come in, come in, sweet love of mi…
Such special sweetness was about    That day God sent you here, I knew the lavender was out,    And it was mid of year. Their common way the great winds b…
Love came back at fall o’ dew, Playing his old part; But I had a word or two That would break his heart. ‘He who comes at candlelight,
An English lad, who, reading in a… A ponderous, leathern thing set on… Saw the broad violet of the Egean… Lap at his feet as it were village… Wide was the east; the gusts of mo…
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…
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…
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…