#AmericanWriters
Whether it be that we in letters t… The pure exactness of a wood bird’… And name it song; or with the brus… The high perfection of a wildflowe… Or mold in difficult marble all th…
Oh, I am going home again, Back to the old house in the lane, And mother! who still sits and sew… With cheeks, each one, a winter ro… A-watching for her boy, you know,
A grey, bald hillside, bristling h… With leprous-looking grass, that,… Slopes to a valley where a wild st… And every bush seems tortured to d… And shows its teeth of thorns as i…
Between the rose’s and the canna’s… Beneath her window in the night I… The jeweled dew hangs little stars… The white moonflowers each a spiri… That points the path to mystic sha…
Withered and gray as winter; gnarl… With bony hands he crouches by the… His beggar’s coat is patched and w… Rags are his shoes: clutched in hi… A chest he hugs wherein he hoards…
There was moonlight in the garden… There was scent of pink and peony… When adown the pathway whitely, wh… She came stepping, oh, so lightly, To the old gate made of pickets.
The gods are dead; but still for m… Lives on in wildwood brook and tre… Each myth, each old divinity. For me still laughs among the rock… The Naiad; and the Dryad’s locks
The thorn-tree waved a bough of M… And all its branches bent To indicate the wildwood way The Wind and Sunbeam went. A wildrose here, a wildrose there
In the frail hepaticas,- That the early Springtide tossed, Sapphire-like, along the ways Of the woodlands that she crossed,… I behold, with other eyes,
Not into these dark cities, These sordid marts and streets, That the sun in his rising pities, And the moon with sorrow greets, Does she, with her dreams and flow…
About the time when bluebells swin… Their elfin belfries for the bee And in the fragrant House of Spri… Wild Music moves; and Fantasy Sits weaving webs of witchery:
Tattered, in ragged raiment of the… The Night arrives. Outside the wi… He stands and, streaming, taps upo… Or, crouching down beside the cell… Letting his hat-brim drain,
Once I found an ant-lion’s hole And an ant-lion in it: nippers Like a pair of rusty clippers. And I saw a red ant roll In its pit, and, quick as Ned,
I heard the wind last night that c… Like some old skipper’s ghost outs… And on the roof the rain that tram… Like feet of seamen on a deck stor… Against the pane the Night with s…
THE season of the rose and peace… It could not last. There’s heartbreak in the hills an… Of sorrow in the rain-lashed plain… While Earth regards, aghast,