#AmericanWriters
If I could catch the green lanter…
All day long I have been working, Now I am tired I call: “Where are you?” But there is only the oak-tree rus… The house is very quiet,
The wind is singing through the tr… A deep-voiced song of rushing cade… And crashing intervals. No summer… Is this, though hot July is at it… Gone is her gentler music; with de…
Brighter than fireflies upon the… Are your words in the dark, Belov…
Poor foolish monarch, vacillating,… Decaying victim of a race of kings… Swift Destiny shook out her purpl… And caught him in their shadow; no… Could furtive plotting smear anoth…
Stupefy my heart to every day’s mo… Seal up my eyes, I would not look… Chasten my steps to peaceful regul… Bow down my head lest I behold a… Fill my days with work, a thousand…
In the cloud gray mornings I heard the herons Flying And when I came into my garden, My silken outer-garment Trailed over withered leaves.
He shouts in the sails of the ship… He steals the down from the honeyb… He makes the forest trees rustle a… He twirls my kite till it breaks i… Laughing, dancing, sunny wind,
The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and narcissus in the air. The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and bores through the water in the bath-tub in ...
When I looked into your eyes, I saw a garden With peonies, and tinkling pagodas… And round-arched bridges Over still lakes.
The Poet took his walking-stick Of fine and polished ebony. Set in the close-grained wood Were quaint devices; Patterns in ambers,
Over the yawning chimney hangs the… fall the raindrops on the oaken lo… and smokes the ceiling beams. Drip… The wide, state bed shivers beneat… in the smoke, a tarnished coronet…
Wild little bird, who chose thee f… To put upon the cover of this book… Who heard thee singing in the dist… The vague, far greenness of the en… When the damp freshness of the mor…
Sea Shell, Sea Shell, Sing me a song, O Please! A song of ships, and sailor men, And parrots, and tropical trees, Of islands lost in the Spanish Ma…
Little cramped words scrawling all… Like draggled fly’s legs, What can you tell of the flaring m… Through the oak leaves? Or of my uncertain window and theb…