#AmericanWriters
Amber and emerald, cairngorm and c… Stream through the autumn woods, s… Ways where the wahoo-bush brighten… And where the aster-stalk lifts it… Ways where the brier burns; poplar…
Where the violet shadows brood Under cottonwoods and beeches, Through whose leaves the restless… Of the river glance, I’ve stood, While the red-bird and the thrush
A cry went through the darkness; a… Hurrying through storm, gazed with… Then cloaked herself in scud: the… Of surges ceased; and then th’ Ae… Of the wild siren, Wind, within t…
Sleep is a spirit, who beside us s… Or through our frames like some di… From out her form a pearly light i… As from a lily, in a lily-bed, A firefly’s gleam. Her face is pa…
Three memories hold us ever With longing and with pain; Three memories Time has never Been able to restrain; That in each life remain
I climbed a forest path and found A dim cave in the dripping ground, Where dwelt the spirit of cool sou… Who wrought with crystal triangles… And hollowed foam of rippled bells…
Red-Faced as old carousal, and wi… A hard, hot blue; her hair a frows… Bold, dowdy-bosomed, from her wido… She leans, her mouth all insult an… Or slattern-slippered and in slutt…
There is nothing that eases my hea… As the wind that blows from the pu… ’Tis a hand of balsam whose healin… Unburdens my bosom of ills. There is nothing that causes my so…
From 'Wild Thorn and Lily’ Among the white haw-blossoms, wher… Droned under drifts of dogwood and… The redbird, like a crimson blosso… Against the snow-white bosom of th…
What would it mean for you and me If dawn should come no more! Think of its gold along the sea, Its rose above the shore! That rose of awful mystery,
ONE blossoming rose-tree, like a… Nursed in a broken mind, that wait… Survives, though shattered, and ab… The strangling dodder streams. Gaunt weeds: and here a bayonet or…
The dawn is a warp of fever, The eve is a woof of fire; And the month is a singing weaver Weaving a red desire. With stars Dawn dices with Even
She sits among the iris stalks Of babbling brooks; and leans for… Among the river’s lily flowers, Or on their whiteness walks: Above dark forest pools, gray rock…
All hushed of glee, The last chill bee Clings wearily To the dying aster. The leaves dropp faster:
The day is dead; and in the west The slender crescent of the moon Diana’s crystal-kindled crest Sinks hillward in a silvery swoon. What is the murmur in the dell?