#AmericanWriters
Man hath harnessed the lightning; Man hath soared to the skies; Mountain and hill are clay to his… Skillful he is, and wise. Sea to sea hath he wedded,
These are the saddest of possible… Tinker to Evers to Chance. Trio of Bear-cubs, fleeter than b… Tinker to Evers to Chance. Ruthlessly pricking our gonfalon b…
Horace: Book III, Ode 15 “Uxor pauperis Ibyci, Tandem nequiti4ae2 fige modum tu4a… IN CHLORIN Dear Mrs. Ibycus, accept a little…
BY MOTHER GOOSE AND O… Bennie’s kisses left me cold, Eddie’s made me yearn to die, Jimmie’s made me laugh aloud,— But Georgie’s made me cry.
AD LEUCONOEN Horace: Book I, Ode 13. _'Tu ne quoesieris, scire nefas-'_ It is not right for you to know, s… Leuconoe,
Horace: Book III, Ode 3 “Carminis interea nostri redæmus… Let us return, then, for a time, To our accustomed round of rhyme; And let my songs’ familiar art
It was a summer evening; Old Kaspar was at home, Sitting before his cottage door— Like in the Southey pome— And near him, with a magazine,
Gaze at the good-natured crowd, List to the noise and the rattle! Heavens! that woman is loud– Loud as the din of a battle. List to the noise and the rattle!
‘Scorn not the sonnet.’ Well, I r… I would not scorn a rondeau, villa… Ballade, sestina, triolet, rondel, Or e’en a quatrain, humble and for… An so it made my Pegasus to trot
How narrow his vision, how cribbed… How prejudiced all of his views! How hard is the shell of his bigot… How difficult he to excuse! His face should be slapped and his…
Many a jest that refuses to die Bobs up again as the seasons appea… Deathless it hits us again in the… Changeless and dull as the calenda… Musty and mouldy and yellow and se…
Whenever the penner of this pome Regards a lovely country home, He sighs, in words not insincere, “I think I’d like to live out her… And when the builder of this ditty
Horace: Book III, Ode 13 "O fons Bandisiæ, splendidior vit… WORTHY of flowers and syrups sw… O fountain of Bandusian onyx, To-morrow shall a goatling’s bleat
Horace: Book IV, Ode 11 “Est mihi nonum superantis annum—” Phyllis, I’ve a jar of wine, (Alban, B.C. 49) Parsley wreathes, and, for your tr…
Tell me not, in doctored numbers, Life is but a name for work! For the labour that encumbers Me I wish that I could shirk. Life is phony! Life is rotten!