#AmericanWriters
Years grow and gather—each a gem Lustrous with laughter and with te… And cunning Time a crown of years Contrives for her who weareth them… No chance can snatch this diadem,
Another day let slip! Its hours h… Its golden hours, with prodigal ex… All run to waste. A day of life t… Of many wasted days, alas, but one… Through my west window streams the…
I have been lonely all my days on… Living a life within my secret sou… With mine own springs of sorrow an… Beyond the world’s control. Though sometimes with vain longing…
St. Andrews! not for ever thine s… Merely the shadow of a mighty name… The remnant only of an ancient fam… Which time has crumbled, as thy ro… For thou, to whom was given the ea…
A day of gladness yet will dawn, Though when I cannot say; Perhaps it may be Thursday week, Perhaps some other day,— When man, freed from the bond of c…
He brought a team from Inversnaid To play our Third Fifteen, A man whom none of us had played And very few had seen. He weighed not less than eighteen…
How often have the critics, traine… To look upon the sky Through telescopes securely chaine… Forgot the naked eye. Within the compass of their glass
Ah yes, we know what you’re saying… As your eye glances over these No… ‘What asses are these that are bra… With flat and unmusical throats? Who writes such unspeakable patter…
Through many lands and over many s… I come, my Brother, to thine obse… To pay thee the last honours that… And call upon thy voiceless dust,… Since cruel fate has robbed me eve…
The city once again doth wear Her wonted dress of winter’s bride… Her mantle woven of misty air, With saffron sunlight faintly dyed… She sits above the seething tide,
Whene’er I try to read a book, Across the page your face will loo… And then I neither know nor care What sense the printed words may b… At night when I would go to sleep…
The life of earth, how full of pai… Which greets us on our day of birt… Nor leaves us while we yet retain The life of earth. There is a shadow on our mirth,
The air is dark and fragrant With memories of a shower, And sanctified with stillness By this most holy hour. The leaves forget to whisper
After Longfellow Loud he sang the song Ta Phershon For his personal diversion, Sang the chorus U-pi-dee, Sang about the Barley Bree.
If a pleasant lawn there grow By the showers caressed, Where in all the seasons blow Flowers gaily dressed, Where by handfuls one may win