#AmericanWriters
The trumpet sounded and the dead Came forth from earth and ocean, And Pickering arose and sped Aloft with wobbling motion. ‘What makes him fly lop-sided?’ cr…
Judge Armstrong, when the poor ha… To be released from vows that they… In haste, and leisurely repented,… As stern as Rhadamanthus (Minos t… And AEeacus) have drawn your fier…
As the poor ass that from his padd… Might sound abroad his field-compa… Recounting volubly their well-bred… Their port impressive and their we… Mistaking for the world’s assent t…
She stood at the ticket-seller’s Serenely removing her glove, While hundreds of strugglers and y… And some that were good at a shove… Were clustered behind her like bat…
It is a politician man He draweth near his end, And friends weep round that partis… Of every man the friend. Between the Known and the Unknown
One thousand years I slept beneat… My sleep in 1901 beginning, Then, by the action of some scurvy… Who happened then to recollect my… I was revived and given another in…
When men at candidacy don’t conniv… From that suspicion if their frien… The teeth and nails with which the… Should be exhibited in a museum.
It is the gallant Seventh It fyghteth faste and free! God wot the where it fyghteth I ne desyre to be. The Gonfalon it flyeth,
It was a solemn rite as e’er Was seen by mortal man. The celebrants, the people there, Were all Republican. There Estee bent his grizzled hea…
Dudley, great placeman, man of mar… Worthy of honor from a feeble pen Blunted in service of all true, go… You serve the Lord-in courses, _t… Au, naturel,_ as well as _a la Ni…
In Bacon see the culminating prim… Of Anglo-Saxon intellect and crim… He dies and Nature, settling his… Parts his endowments among us, his… To every one a pinch of brain for…
The skies they were ashen and sobe… The leaves they were crisped and s… ‘ ’ ‘ withering ’… It was night in the lonesome Octo… Of my most immemorial year;
The moon in the field of the keel-… Was watching the growing tide: A luminous peasant was driving his… And he offered my soul a ride. But I nourished a sorrow uncommon…
A Countess (so they tell the tale… Who dwelt of old in Arno’s vale, Where ladies, even of high degree, Know more of love than of A.B.C, Came once with a prodigious bribe
FITCH: 'All vices you’ve exhausted, frien… So all the papers say.' PICKERING: ‘Ah, what vile calumnies are penne…
