#AmericanWriters
Alas for the bird who was born to… They have made him a cage; they ha… They have shut him up in a dingy s… And they praise his singing and ca… But his heart and his song are sad…
Children of earth are we, Lovers of land and sea, Of hill, of brook, of tree, Of all things fair; Of all things dark or bright,
So in the village inn the poet dwe… His honey-dew was gone; only the p… His cousin’s work, her empty labou… But still he sniffed it, still a f… And lingered all about the broider…
I had a plant which would not thri… Although I watered it with care, I could not save the blossoms fair… Nor even keep the leaves alive. I strove till it was vain to striv…
When I was young and well and gla… I used to play at being sad; Now youth and health are fled away… At being glad I sometimes play.
Fickle Summer’s fled away, Shall we see her face again? Hearken to the weeping rain, Never sunbeam greets the day. More inconstant than the May,
The sun shines fair on Tweedside,… Your heart is full of pleasure, yo… Your cheeks are like the morning,… Or morning and her dew-drops are l… Because you are a princess, a prin…
Fain would I shake thee off, but… Thy strong solicitations to withst… Plenty of work lies ready to my ha… Which rests irresolute, and lets i… How can I work, when that seducti…
Of our own will we are not free, When freedom lies within our power… We wait for some decisive hour, To rise and take our liberty. Still we delay, content to be
Sorrow and sin have worked their w… For years upon your sovereign face… And yet it keeps a faded trace Of its unequalled beauty still, As ruined sanctuaries hold
Lost Youth, come back again! Laugh at weariness and pain. Come not in dreams, but come in tr… Lost Youth. Sweetheart of long ago,
on returning to St. Andrews In the hard familiar horse-box I… Creeping back to old St. Andrews… Bearing bejants with their luggage… Which the porter, hot and tipless,…
This is the time when larks are si… And higher still ascending and mor… This is the time when many a fleec… Runs lamb-like on the pastures of… This is the time when most I love…
Dear Ritchie, I am waiting for th… And tell me that the visit which h… Is to be a thing of now, and no mo… Dear Ritchie, I am waiting. The sea is at its bluest, and the…
Gone is the glory from the hills, The autumn sunshine from the mere, Which mourns for the declining yea… In all her tributary rills. A sense of change obscurely chills