#AmericanWriters
Upon the mossed rock by the spring She sits, forgetful of her pail, Lost in remote remembering Of that which may no more avail. Her thin, pale hair is dimly dress…
He held himself splendidly forward Both early and late; The aim of his purpose was starwar… To master his fate: So he wrought and he toiled and he…
What words of mine can tell the sp… Of garden ways I know so well?- The path that takes me in the spri… Past quince-trees where the bluebi… And peonies are blossoming,
Masks Death rides black-masked to-night;… Madness beside him brandishes a to… The peaceful farmhouse with its vi… Lies in their way. Death lifts a…
Above lone woodland ways that led To dells the stealthy twilights tr… The west was hot geranium red; And still, and still, Along old lanes the locusts sow
I heard the toads and frogs last n… When snug in bed, and all was stil… I lay and listened there until It seemed a church where one, with… Was preaching high and very shrill…
I cannot tell what I would tell t… What I would say, what thou shoul… Words of the soul that should comp… Words of the heart to draw thee ne… For when thou smilest, thou, who f…
When, one by one, the stars have t… Eve’s shadowy hues of violet, rose… As on a pansy-bloom the limpid dew Orbs its bright beads; and, one by… Of insects wakes on nodding bush a…
Booted and spurred he rode toward… A rose, from the woman who loved h… Lay warm with her kisses there in… And the battle beacons were burnin… As over the draw he galloping went…
They’ve torn the old house down, t… Like some kind mother, in this pla… Hugged by its orchard and its wood… Two sturdy children, strong of rac… This formal place makes no appeal.
The spring may come in her pomp an… And Summer follow with rain and r… Or Fall lead in that old offender… Winter, close-huddled up in snows: Ever a-South the Love-wind blows
Last night we were kept awake. Could n’t sleep for Old Jack Fro… Wandering round like some old ghos… Gave the door an awful shake; Knocked against my bed’s brass pos…
The moth and beetle wing about The garden ways of other days; Above the hills, a fiery shout Of gold, the day dies slowly out, Like some wild blast a huntsman bl…
Deep in her broom-sedge, burs and… Her frost-slain asters and dead ma… Where gray the wilding clematis ba… The brake with puff-balls: where t… Her sombre steps: decked with the…
THE Season speaks this year of l… Confusing words of strife, Suggesting weeds instead of fruits… In all Earth’s bowers. With heart of Jael, face of Ruth,