#AmericanWriters
My garden aboundeth in pleasant no… And fragrance is over it all; For sweet is the smell of my old,… In their places against the wall. Here is a folio that’s grim with a…
When Father Time swings round his… Entomb me 'neath the bounteous vin… So that its juices, red and blithe… May cheer these thirsty bones of m… “Elsewise with tears and bated bre…
There, there, poor dog, my faithfu… Pay you no heed unto my sorrow: But feast to-day while yet you may… Who knows but we shall starve to-m… “Give us a tune,” the foemen cried…
'T is spring! The boats bound to… The breezes, loitering kindly over The fields, again bring herds and… The grateful cheer of honeyed clov… Now Venus hither leads her train;
Nay, why discuss this summer heat, Of which vain people tell? Oh, sinner, rather were it meet To fix thy thoughts on hell! The punishment ordained for you
How calm, how beauteous and how co… How like a sister to the skies, Appears the broad, transparent poo… That in this quiet forest lies. The sunshine ripples on its face,
O Lady Fortune! 't is to thee I… Dwelling at Antium, thou hast pow… The veriest clod with riches and r… And change a triumph to a funeral The tillers of the soil and they t…
Sweetheart, be my sweetheart When birds are on the wing, When bee and bud and babbling floo… Bespeak the birth of spring, Come, sweetheart, be my sweetheart
Dear wife, last midnight, whilst… The tomes you so despise, A spectre rose beside the bed, And spake in this true wise: 'From Canaan’s beatific coast
What perfumed, posie-dizened sirra… With smiles for diet, Clasps you, O fair but faithless… On the quiet? For whom do you bind up your tress…
As forth he pours the new made win… What blessing asks the lyric poet— What boon implores in this fair sh… Of one full likely to bestow it? Not for Sardinia’s plenteous stor…
Go, Cupid, and my sweetheart tell I love her well. Yes, though she tramples on my hea… And rends that bleeding thing apar… And though she rolls a scornful ey…
I am not rich, and yet my wealth Surpasseth human measure; My store untold Is not of gold Nor any sordid treasure.
Up yonder in Buena Park There is a famous spot, In legend and in history Yclept the Waller Lot. There children play in daytime
I count my treasures o’er with car… The little toy my darling knew, A little sock of faded hue, A little lock of golden hair. Long years ago this holy time,