#AmericanWriters
I loved a little maiden In the golden years gone by; She lived in a mill, as they all d… (There is doubtless a reason why). But she faded in the autumn
Let me sleep. The day is past, And the folded shadows keep Weary mortals safe and fast. Let me sleep. I am all too tired to weep
In youth with diligence he toiled A Roman nose to gain, But though a decent pug was spoile… A pug it did remain.
Not the proudest damsel here Looks so well as doth my dear. All the borrowed light of dress Outshining not her loveliness, A loveliness not born of art,
There was a time when it was count… To be a patriot—whether by the zea… Of peaceful labour for the country… Or by the courage in her cause to… FOR KING AND COUNTRY was a…
Long since I came into the school… A child in works, but not a child… Slowly I learn, by her instructio… To be in works a man, in heart a c…
When people tell me they have love… But once in youth, I wonder, are they always moved To speak the truth? Not that they wilfully deceive:
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,…
Weak soul, by sense still led astr… Why wilt thou parley with the foe? He seeks to work thine overthrow, And thou, poor fool! dost point th… Hast thou forgotten many a day,
Song is not dead, although to-day Men tell us everything is said. There yet is something left to say… Song is not dead. While still the evening sky is red…
There was a time when in your face There dwelt such power, and in you… I know not what of magic grace; They held me captive for a while. Ah, then I listened for your voic…
Last night, when at parting Awhile we did stand, Suddenly starting, There fell on my hand Something that burned it,
I shall be spun. There is a voice… Which tells me plainly I am all u… For though I toil not, neither do… I shall be spun. April approaches. I have not begu…
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
Beyond the Cheviots and the Tweed… Beyond the Firth of Forth, My memory returns at speed To Scotland and the North. For still I keep, and ever shall,