#AmericanWriters
Once I loved a spider When I was born a fly, A velvet-footed spider With a gown of rainbow-dye. She ate my wings and gloated.
The North Star whispers: “You ar… Of those whose course no chance ca… You blunder, but are not undone, Your spirit-task is fixed and stra… ”When here you walk, a bloodless s…
What is my mast? A pen. What are my sails? Ten crescent m… What is my sea? A bottle of ink. Where do I go? To heaven again. What do I eat? The amaranth flowe…
Elizabeth Barrett Browning Sat gossiping with Robert. (She was really a raving beauty in… With Mary Pickford curls in cloud… She was trying to think of somethi…
The flower-fed buffaloes of the sp… In the days of long ago, Ranged where the locomotives sing And the prarie flowers lie low: The tossing, blooming, perfumed gr…
Girl with the burning golden eyes, And red-bird song, and snowy throa… I bring you gold and silver moons, And diamond stars, and mists that… I bring you moons and snowy clouds…
(A song to be syncopated as you pl… Black cats, grey cats, green cats… Chasing the deacon who stole the c… He runs and tumbles, he tumbles an… He sees big white men with dogs an…
The Moon’s the North Wind’s cook… He bites it, day by day, Until there’s but a rim of scraps That crumble all away. The South Wind is a baker.
The arts are old, old as the stone… From which man carved the sphinx a… Deep are the days the old arts bri… Ten thousand years of yesteryear. She is madonna in an art
This is the sin against the Holy… To speak of bloody power as right… And call on God to guard each vil… And for such chiefs, turn men to w… To go forth killing in White Merc…
I was but a half-grown boy, You were a girl-child slight. Ah, how weary you were! You had led in the bullock-fight..… We slew the bullock at length
Sleep softly... eagle forgotten...… Time has its way with you there, a… “We have buried him now,” thought… They made a brave show of their mo… They had snarled at you, barked at…
O dandelion, rich and haughty, King of village flowers! Each day is coronation time, You have no humble hours. I like to see you bring a troop
The moon’s a little prairie-dog. He shivers through the night. He sits upon his hill and cries For fear that I will bite. The sun’s a broncho. He’s afraid
Friends, I will not cease hoping… Such things I see, and some of th… Though now or streets are harsh an… Though our strong youths are strid… Friends, that sweet town, that won…