#AmericanWriters
Every critic in the town Runs the minor poet down; Every critic—don’t you know it? Is himself a minor poet.
It seems a little word to say - FAREWELL—but may it not, when… Be like the kiss we give the dead, Before they pass the doors for aye… Who knows if, on some after day,
These verses have I pilfered like… Out of a letter from my C. C. C. In London, showing what befell hi… With other things, of interest to… One page described a night in open…
Come back to St. Andrews! Before… You said you would be wretched whe… The East sands and the West sands… Come back to St. Andrews—St. And… Oh, it’s dreary along South Stree…
When one is young and eager, A bejant and a boy, Though his moustache be meagre, That cannot mar his joy When at the Competition
The sun is banished, The daylight vanished, No rosy traces Are left behind. Here in the meadow
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…
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…
Oh, who may this dead warrior be That to his grave they bring? ’Tis William, Duke of Normandy, The conqueror and king. Across the sea, with fire and swor…
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
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…
In vain you fervently extol, In vain you puff, your cutty clay. A twelvemonth smoked and black as… ’Tis redolent of rank decay And bones of monks long passed awa…
Here, where the thoroughfares meet… Of ninety degrees (this angle is r… You may hear the loafers that jest… Through the sun-lit day and the la… Though day be dreary and night be…
Last night, when at parting Awhile we did stand, Suddenly starting, There fell on my hand Something that burned it,
The truest Liberal is he Who sees the man in each degree, Who merit in a churl can prize, And baseness in an earl despise, Yet censures baseness in a churl,