#AmericanWriters
Now it’s over, and now it’s done; Why does everything look the same? Just as bright, the unheeding sun,… Can’t it see that the parting came… People hurry and work and swear,
So let me have the rouge again, And comb my hair the curly way. The poor young men, the dear young… They’ll all be here by noon today. And I shall wear the blue, I thin…
If you should sail for Trebizond,… Or cry another name in your first… Or see me board a train, and fail… Appropriately, I’d clutch my brea… And you, if I should wander throu…
The days will rally, wreathing Their crazy tarantelle; And you must go on breathing, But I’ll be safe in hell. Like January weather,
Lady, if you’d slumber sound, Keep your eyes upon the ground. If you’d toss and turn at night, Slip your glances left and right. Would the mornings find you gay,
[and scarcely worth the trouble, a… The same to me are somber days and… Though Joyous dawns the rosy morn… Because my dearest love is gone aw… Within my heart is melancholy nigh…
Carlyle combined the lit’ry life With throwing teacups at his wife, Remarking, rather testily, “Oh, stop your dodging, Mrs. C.!”
Chloe’s hair, no doubt, was bright… Lydia’s mouth more sweetly sad; Hebe’s arms were rather whiter; Languorous-lidded Helen had Eyes more blue than e’er the sky w…
And if, my friend, you’d have it e… There’s naught to hear or tell. But need you try to black my eye In wishing me farewell. Though I admit an edged wit
Oh, I’d been better dying, Oh, I was slow and sad; A fool I was, a-crying About a cruel lad! But there was one that found me,
I met a man the other day– A kindly man, and serious– Who viewed me in a thoughtful way, And spoke me so, and spoke me thus… “Oh, dallying’s a sad mistake;
If wild my breast and sore my prid… I bask in dreams of suicide; If cool my heart and high my head, I think, ‘How lucky are the dead!…
They say of me, and so they should… It’s doubtful if I come to good. I see acquaintances and friends Accumulating dividends, And making enviable names
My own dear love, he is strong and… And he cares not what comes after. His words ring sweet as a chime of… And his eyes are lit with laughter… He is jubilant as a flag unfurled—
Maidens, gather not the yew, Leave the glossy myrtle sleeping; Any lad was born untrue, Never a one is fit your weeping. Pretty dears, your tumult cease;