#AmericanWriters
When I behold how some pursue Fame, that is Care’s embodiment Or fortune, whose false face looks… An humble home with sweet content Is all I ask for me and you.
I Heard a reed among the hills, A woodland reed of music where, Like madcap children, ran the rill… Boisterous, with wildly flowing ha… I knew it for a pipe the Spring
He waited till within her tower Her taper signalled him the hour. He was a prince both fair and brav… What hope that he would love her s… He of the Persian dynasty;
OH, for some cup of consummating… Filled with life’s kind conclusion… A wine of darkness, that with deat… This sickness called existence!—O… Surcease of sorrow! quiet for the…
Over the hills, as the pewee flies… Under the blue of the Southern sk… Over the hills, where the red-bird… Like a scarlet blossom, or sits an… Under the shadow of rock and tree,
Clumped in the shadow of the beech… In whose brown top the crows are l… Where, every side, great briers re… And cling like hands, the beechdro… The mossy cirque with neutral tint…
She walks with the wind on the win… When the rocks are loud and the wa… And all night long she calls throu… ‘O my children, come home!’ Her bleak gown, torn as a tattered…
He told a story to her, A story old yet new And was it of the Faëry Folk That dance along the dew? The night was hung with silence
Secluded, solitary on some underbo… Or cradled in a leaf, 'mid glimmer… Like Puck thou crouchest: Haply w… The slow toadstool comes bulging,… Through loosening loam; or how, ag…
Where, through the myriad leaves o… The daylight falls, beryl and chry… The glamour and the glimmer of its… Seem visible music, tangible melod… Light that is music; music that on…
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…
With fall on fall, from wood to wo… The brook pours mossy music down Or is it, in the solitude, The murmur of a Faery town? A town of Elfland filled with bel…
I Have not seen her face, and yet She is more sweet than any thing Of Earth than rose or violet That Mayday winds and sunbeams br… Of all we know, past or to come,
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,
Bee-Bitten in the orchard hung The peach; or, fallen in the weeds… Lay rotting, where still sucked an… The gray bee, boring to its seed’s Pink pulp and honey blackly stung.