#AmericanWriters
When my mother is n’t here, And I just won’t go to bed, And it’s cold outside and near Christmas; and the kitchen-shed ‘S covered thick with frost and sn…
Sunflowers wither and lilies die, Poppies are pods of seeds; The first red leaves on the pathwa… Like blood of a heart that bleeds. Weary alway will it be to-day,
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
The rain made ruin of the rose and… The lily into tatters: now the Mo… Looks from the hopeless East with… As from her attic looks a dull-eye… The coreopsis drips; the sunflower…
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.
From the idyll 'Wild Thorn and L… O Maytime woods! O Maytime lanes… And stars, that knew how often the… Beside the path, where woodbine od… Between the drowsy eyelids of the…
Here is a tale for all who wish to… There was a thief who, in his cut-… Was hailed as chief; he had a way… Persuasion, masked, behind a weapo… That made it cockrow with each goo…
Out of it all but this remains: I was with one who crossed wide ch… Of the Cordilleras, whose peaks Lock in the wilds of Yucatan, Chiapas and Honduras. Weeks
Yea, this is he, whose name is syn… Of all that’s noble, though but lo… Who took command upon a stormy mor… When few had hope. Although uncou… Homely of face and gaunt, but neve…
Rocks, trees and rocks; and down a… The murmuring ooze and trickle of… Through bushes, where the mountain… A gleaming cairngorm where the sha… And one wild road winds like a saf…
O roads, O paths, O ways that lea… Through woods where all the oak-tr… With autumn! and the frosty reds Of fallen leaves make whispering b… For winds to toss and turn upon,
The night is sad with silver and t… And the woodland silence listens t… Of the Lady of the Fountain, whom… With her limbs of samite whiteness… Whom the boyish South Wind seeks…
He found the road so long and lone That he was fain to turn again. The bird’s faint note, the bee’s l… Seemed to his heart to monotone The unavailing and the vain,
When blood-root blooms and trilliu… Unclasp their stars to sun and rai… My heart strikes hands with winds… And wanders in the woods again. O urging impulse, born of spring,
Some reckon time by stars, And some by hours: Some measure days by dreams, And some by flowers: My heart alone records