#Americans
Thou Poet, who, like any lark, Dost whet thy beak and trill From misty morn till murky dark, Nor ever pipe thy fill: Hast thou not, in thy cheery note,
To William Morris Pierson [1868-1870] Of the wealth of facts and fancies That our memories may recall, The old school-day romances
Las’ time 'at Uncle Sidney come, He bringed a watermelon home— An’ half the boys in town, Come taggin’ after him.—An’ he Says, when we et it,—_'Gracious m…
In words like weeds, I’ll wrap me… Like coarsest clothes against the… But that large grief which these e… Is given in outline and no more. —TENNYSON.
Thou drowsy god, whose blurred eye… Muse on me—, drifting out upon thy… I lave my soul as in enchanted str… Where revelling satyrs pipe along… And tipsy with the melody they dri…
The boy lives on our Farm, he’s n… Afeard o’ horses none! An’ he can make 'em lope, er trot, Er rack, er pace, er run. Sometimes he drives two horses, wh…
As one who cons at evening o’er an… And muses on the faces of the frie… So I turn the leaves of Fancy, ti… I find the smiling features of an… The lamplight seems to glimmer wit…
‘Why do I sing—Tra-la-la-la-la! Glad as a King?—Tra-la-la-la-la! Well, since you ask,— I have such a pleasant task, I can not help but sing!
Her heart knew naught of sorrow, Nor the vaguest taint of sin— 'Twas an ever-blooming blossom Of the purity within: And her hands knew only touches
A Old Tramp slep’ in our stable w… An’ The Raggedy Man he caught An’ roust him up, an’ chased him o… Clean out through our back lot! An’ th’ Old Tramp hollered back a…
It was just a very Merry fairy dream!— All the woods were airy With the gloom and gleam; Crickets in the clover
I’m twins, I guess, 'cause my Ma… I’m two little girls. An’ one o’… Is _Good_ little girl; an’ th’oth… Is _Bad little girl as she can be… An’ Ma say so, 'most ever’ day.
The kind of a man for you and me! He faces the world unflinchingly, And smites, as long as the wrong r… With a knuckled faith and force li… He lives the life he is preaching…
The harp of the minstrel has never… As sad as the song in his bosom to… For the magical touch of his finge… Can not waken the echoes that brea… But oh! as the smile of the moon m…
What is it in old fiddle-chunes 'a… And ripples up my backbone tel I’… Kindo’ like that sweet-sick feelin… The first you ever swung in, with… Yer first picnic—yer first ice-cre…