#AmericanWriters
Women have loved before as I love… At least, in lively chronicles of… Of Irish waters by a Cornish prow Or Trojan waters by a Spartan mas… Much to their cost invaded—here an…
When will you learn, myself, to be a dying leaf on a living tree? Budding, swelling, growing strong, Wearing green, but not for long, Drawing sustenance from air,
(Vassar College, 1918) O, loveliest throat of all sweet t… Where now no more the music is, With hands that wrote you little n… I write you little elegies!
Love has gone and left me and the… Eat I must, and sleep I will,—and… here! But ah!—to lie awake and hear the… Would that it were day again!—with…
Minstrel, what have you to do With this man that, after you, Sharing not your happy fate, Sat as England’s Laureate? Vainly, in these iron days,
Here is a wound that never will he… Being wrought not of a dearness an… But of a love turned ashes and the… Gone out of beauty; never again wi… The grass on that scarred acre, th…
Before she has her floor swept Or her dishes done, Any day you’ll find her A-sunning in the sun! It’s long after midnight
Man alive, that mournst thy lot, Desiring what thou hast not got, Money, beauty, love, what not; Deeming it blesseder to be A rotted man, than live to see
The railroad track is miles away, And the day is loud with voices sp… Yet there isn’t a train goes by al… But I hear its whistle shrieking. All night there isn’t a train goes…
I shall go back again to the bleak… And build a little shanty on the s… In such a way that the extremest b… Of brittle seaweed shall escape my… But by a yard or two; and nevermor…
As to some lovely temple, tenantle… Long since, that once was sweet wi… Knowing well its altars ruined and… Grown up between the stones, yet f… Of grief hard driven, or great lon…
April this year, not otherwise Than April of a year ago, Is full of whispers, full of sighs… Of dazzling mud and dingy snow; Hepaticas that pleased you so
Cherish you then the hope I shall… At length, my lord, Pieria?—put a… For your so passing sake, this mou… These mortal bones against my body… For all the puny fever and frail s…
Once from a big, big building, When I was small, small, The queer folk in the windows Would smile at me and call. And in the hard wee gardens
Was it for this I uttered prayers… And sobbed and cursed and kicked t… That now, domestic as a plate, I should retire at half-past eight…