#AmericanWriters
There is a place hung o’er of summ… And dreamy skies wherein the gray… Where water flows, within whose la… Like silvery prisms where the sunb… The minnows twinkle; where the bel…
I oft have met her slowly wanderin… Beside a leafy stream, her locks b… Her cheeks a hectic flush, more fa… As if on her the sumach copse had… Or I have seen her sitting, tall…
What is that which walks by night In flying tatters of leaves and we… When the clouds rush by like daemo… And the moon is a jack-o’-lantern… Low in the pool’s dark reeds?
We have sent him seeds of the melo… And nailed a warning upon his door… By the Ku Klux laws we can do no… Down in the hollow, 'mid crib and… The roof of his low-porched house…
From out the hills where twilight… Above the shadowy pasture lands, With strained and strident cry, Beneath pale skies that sunset ban… The bull-bats fly.
The roses mourn for her who sleeps Within the tomb; For her each lily-flower weeps Dew and perfume. In each neglected flower-bed
Why have you come? to see me in my… A thing to spit on, to despise and… And then to ask me! You, by whom… And then cast by, like some vile r… What shelter could you give me, no…
What mines the morning heavens unf… What far Alaskas of the skies! That, veined with elemental gold, Sierra on Sierra rise. Heap up the gold of all the world,
Deep with divine tautology, The sunset’s mighty mystery Again has traced the scroll-like w… With hieroglyphs of burning gold: Forever new, forever old,
Down all the lanterned Bagdad of… He steals, with golden justice for… Within his palace you shall know t… A blood-smeared headsman hides beh…
The dogs made way for him and snar… And little children to their paren… Big-eyed with fear, when, gruff of… Bent-backed he passed who had the… In old drab coat and trousers, sho…
When by the wall the tiger-flower… A head of sultry slumber and aroma… And by the path, whereon the blown… Its obsolete beauty, the long lili… White place of perfume, like a bea…
I Thought of the road through the… With its hawk’s nest high in the p… With its rock, where the fox had h… ‘Mid tangles of sumach and vine, Where she swore to be mine.
There was once a little boy— So my father told me—who Never cared for any toy, But just sweet things, as boys do, Cakes and comfits, cream and ice,
He rode adown the autumn wood, A man dark-eyed and brown; A mountain girl before him stood Clad in a homespun gown. ‘To ride this road is death for yo…