#AmericanWriters
In classic beauty, cold, immaculat… A voiceful sculpture, stern and st… Upon her brow deep-chiselled love… That sorrow o’er dead roses in her…
THE WIND IN THE PINES WHEN winds go organing through t… On hill and headland, darkly gleam… Meseems I hear sonorous lines Of Iliads that the woods are drea…
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…
Thou pulse of hotness, who, with r… Makest meridian music, long and lo… Accentuating summer!-Dost thy bes… To make the sunbeams fiercer, and… With lonesomeness the long, close…
Through woods the Spanish moss ma… With deeps the daylight never reac… The water sluices slow its way, And chokes with weeds its beaches. ‘T was here, lost in this lone bay…
Like colored lanterns swung in El… Wild morning-glories light the tan… And, like the rosy rockets of the… Burns the sloped crimson of the ca…
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…
Heaped in raven loops and masses Over temples smooth and fair, Have you marked it, as she passes, Gleam and shadow mingled there, Braided strands of midnight air,
Far to the South a star, Bright-shining over all; And a sound of voices singing, ‘Round a Babe in an ox’s-stall. Three Kings a-riding, riding,
Here is a tale for infants and old… There was a man who gathered rags;… Who lived alone: with no one ever… And this old man was very fond of… His house, a ruin, so the tale reh…
I HAD forgot how, in my day The Sabine fields around me lay In amaranth and asphodel, With many a cold Bandusian well Bright-bubbling by the mountain-wa…
High on a throne of noisome ooze a… ‘Mid rotting trees of bayou and la… Ghastly she sits beneath the skele… A tawny horror coiling at her feet Fever, whose eyes keep watching, s…
When all the world was Mayday, And all the skies were blue, Young innocence made playday Among the flowers and dew; Then all of life was Mayday,
BLACK clouds hung low and heavy, Above the sunset glare; And in the garden dimly We wandered here and there. So full of strife, of trouble
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…