#AmericanWriters
Half of my life is gone, and I ha… The years slip from me and have no… The aspiration of my youth, to bui… Some tower of song with lofty para… Not indolence, nor pleasure, nor t…
The merchant’s word Delighted the Master heard; For his heart was in his work, and… Giveth grace unto every Art. A quiet smile played round his lip…
When the warm sun, that brings Seed-time and harvest, has returne… 'T is sweet to visit the still woo… The first flower of the plain. I love the season well,
The evening came; the golden vane A moment in the sunset glanced, Then darkened, and then gleamed ag… As from the east the moon advanced And touched it with a softer light…
How I started up in the night, in… Drawn on without rest or reprieval… The streets, with their watchmen,… As I wandered so light In the night, in the night,
This song of mine Is a Song of the Vine, To be sung by the glowing embers Of wayside inns, When the rain begins
Under Mount Etna he lies, It is slumber, it is not death; For he struggles at times to arise… And above him the lurid skies Are hot with his fiery breath.
The holiest of all holidays are th… Kept by ourselves in silence and a… The secret anniversaries of the he… When the full river of feeling ove… The happy days unclouded to their…
Simon Danz has come home again, From cruising about with his bucca… He has singed the beard of the Ki… And carried away the Dean of Jaen And sold him in Algiers.
Where are the Poets, unto whom be… The Olympian heights; whose singi… Straight to the mark, and not from… But with the utmost tension of the… Where are the stately argosies of…
FAR in the West there lies a des… Lift, through perpetual snows, the… Down from their jagged, deep ravin… Opens a passage rude to the wheels… Westward the Oregon flows and the…
By his evening fire the artist Pondered o’er his secret shame; Baffled, weary, and disheartened, Still he mused, and dreamed of fam… 'T was an image of the Virgin
Witlaf, a king of the Saxons, Ere yet his last he breathed, To the merry monks of Croyland His drinking—horn bequeathed,— That, whenever they sat at their r…
Laugh of the mountain!—lyre of bir… Pomp of the meadow! mirror of the… The soul of April, unto whom are… The rose and jessamine, leaps wild… Although, where’er thy devious cur…
It was Einar Tamberskelver Stood beside the mast; From his yew-bow, tipped with silv… Flew the arrows fast; Aimed at Eric unavailing,