#AmericanWriters
DIS is gospel weathah sho’ — Hills is sawt o’ hazy. Meddahs level ez a flo’ Callin’ to de lazy. Sky all white wif streaks o’ blue,
You 'll be wonderin’ whut ‘s de re… I ’s a grinnin’ all de time, An’ I guess you t’ink my sperits Mus’ be feelin’ mighty prime. Well, I 'fess up, I is tickled
WINTAH time hit comin’ Stealin’ thoo de night; Wake up in the mo’nin’ Evah ting is white; Cabin lookin’ lonesome
ON the wide veranda white, In the purple failing light, Sits the master while the sun is l… And his dreamy thoughts are drowne… In the softly flowing sound
He was a poet who wrote clever ver… And folks said he had a fine poeti… But his father, a practical farmer… Of letting the strength of his arm… He called on his sweetheart each…
By Mystic’s banks I held my dream… (I held my fishing rod as well,) The vision was of dace and bream, A fruitless vision, sooth to tell. But round about the sylvan dell
Ashes to ashes, dust unto dust, What of his loving, what of his lu… What of his passion, what of his p… What of his poverty, what of his p… Earth, the great mother, has calle…
O li’l’ lamb out in de col’, De Mastah call you to de fol’, O li’l’ lamb! He hyeah you bleatin’ on de hill; Come hyeah an’ keep yo’ mou’nin’ s…
ON THE RECEIPT OF A F… To me, like hauntings of a vagrant… From some far forest which I once… The perfume of this flower of vers… Tho’ seemingly soul—blossoms faint…
I AM no priest of crooks nor cree… For human wants and human needs Are more to me than prophets’ deed… And human tears and human cares Affect me more than human prayers.
THE river sleeps beneath the sky, And clasps the shadows to its brea… The crescent moon shines dim on hi… And in the lately radiant west The gold is fading into gray.
It’s hot to—day. The bees is buzz… Kinder don’t—keer—like aroun’ An’ fur off the warm air dances O’er the parchin’ roofs in town. In the brook the cows is standin’;
SWEETEST of the flowers a—bloo… In the fragrant vernal days Is the Lily of the Valley With its soft, retiring ways. Well, you chose this humble blosso…
Why was it that the thunder voice… Should call thee, studious, from t… Where calm—eyed Pallas with still… And charge thee seek the turmoil o… What bade thee hear the voice and…
'Tis an old deserted homestead On the outskirts of the town, Where the roof is all moss—covered… And the walls are tumbling down; But around that little cottage