#AmericanWriters
De times is mighty stirrin’ ‘mong… Dey ’sputin’ an’ dey argyin’ an’ f… An’ all dis monst’ous trouble dat… Is 'bout dat Lucy Jackson dat was… She was de preachah’s favoured, an…
Darling, my darling, my heart is o… It flies to thee this morning like… Like happy birds in springtime my… The same sweet song thine ears hav… The sun is in my window, the shado…
W’EN you full o’ worry 'Bout yo’ wo’k an’ sich, W’en you kind o’ bothered Case you can’t get rich, An’ yo’ neighboh p’ospah
She told the story, and the whole… At wrongs and cruelties it had not… But for this fearless woman’s voic… She spoke to consciences that long… Her message, Freedom’s clear reve…
I’VE a humble little motto That is homely, though it’s true,… Keep a—pluggin’ away. It’s a thing when I’ve an object That I always try to do, —
DONE are the toils and the weari… Done is the summons of bugle and d… Softly and sweetly the sky overarc… Shelt’ring a land where Rebellion… Dark were the days of the country’…
DEAR heart, good—night! Nay, list awhile that sweet voice… When the world is all so bright, And the sound of song sets the hea… Oh, love, it is not right—
DEEP in my heart that aches with… And strives with plenitude of bitt… There lives a thought that clamors… And spends its undelivered force i… What boots it that some other may…
MY soul, lost in the music’s mist… Roamed, rapt, 'neath skies of amet… The cheerless streets grew summer… The Son of Phœbus spurred his ste… And, wand’ring down the mazy tune,
OH, the poets may sing of their L… And may rave in their rhymes about… But I throw my poetical wings to… And soar in a song to my Lady Lou… A sweet little maid, who is dearer…
A life was mine full of the close… Of many—voiced affairs. The world… Behind me, ever rolled a pregnant… A present came equipped with lore… Art, science, letters, in their tu…
De ol’ time’s gone, de new time’s… Wid all hits fuss an’ feddahs; I done fu’got de joy an’ cheah We knowed all kin’s o’ weddahs, I done fu’got each ol’—time hymn
How’s a man to write a sonnet, can… How’s he going to weave the dim, p… When a—toddling on the floor Is the muse he must adore, And this muse he loves, not wisely…
In the tents of Akbar Are dole and grief to—day, For the flower of all the Indies Has gone the silent way. In the tents of Akbar
WHAT are the things that make li… A star gleam in the night. What hearts us for the coming fray… The dawn tints of the day. What helps to speed the weary mile…