#AmericanWriters
The blast from Freedom’s Northern… Bears greeting to Virginia from M… No word of haughty challenging, no… Nor steady tread of marching files… No trains of deep-mouthed cannon a…
Have I not voyaged, friend belove… On the great waters of the unsound… Momently listening with suspended… For the low rote of waves upon a s… Changeless as heaven, where never…
FOR DOROTHEA L. DIX. Stranger and traveller, Drink freely and bestow A kindly thought on her Who bade this fountain flow,
In that black forest, where, when… With a snake’s stillness glides th… Darkly from sunset to the rising s… A cry, as of the pained heart of t… The long, despairing moan of solit…
FROM gold to gray Our mild sweet day Of Indian Summer fades too soon; But tenderly Above the sea
He comes,– he comes,– the Frost S… You may trace his footsteps now On the naked woods and the blasted… And the brown hill’s withered brow… He has smitten the leaves of the g…
In trance and dream of old, God’s… The casting down of thrones. Thou… The hot Sardinian coast-line, haz… Where, fringing round Caprera’s r… With foam, the slow waves gather a…
Still, as of old, in Beavor’s Val… O man of God! our hope and faith The Elements and Stars assail, And the awed spirit holds its brea… Blown over by a wind of death.
ACCOMPANYING MANUS… 'T is said that in the Holy Land The angels of the place have bless… The pilgrim’s bed of desert sand, Like Jacob’s stone of rest.
THE years are but half a score, And the war-whoop sounds no more With the blast of bugles, where Straight into a slaughter pen, With his doomed three hundred men,
UP, laggards of Freedom!—our free… To the blaze of the sun and the wi… Will ye turn from a struggle so br… From a foe that is breaking, a fie… Whoso loves not his kind, and who…
‘Jove means to settle Astraea in her seat again, And let down his golden chain An age of better metal.’ Ben Johnson 1615
Another hand is beckoning us, Another call is given; And glows once more with Angel-st… The path which reaches Heaven. Our young and gentle friend, whose…
On the wide lawn the snow lay deep… Ridged o’er with many a drifted he… The wind that through the pine-tre… The naked elm-boughs tossed and sw… While, through the window, frosty-…
A HARVEST IDYL. PROEM. I CALL the old time back: I bri… in tender memory of the summer day When, where our native river lapse…