#Americans
They shall go down unto Life’s Bo… Walk unafraid within that Living… Nor heed the driving rain of shot… That 'round them falls; but with u… Be one with mighty hosts, an arméd…
The little child crosses the stree… Why does she wave to me? What sees she in my wasted form To hail so joyously? Her olive face and curly hair
Old November, sere and brown, Clothes the country, haunts the to… Sheds its cloak of withered leaves… Brings its sighing, soughing breez… Prophet of the dying year,
Sunless days and starless nights Bearing fruits of wrack and pain, Purge my lips of lover’s vows, Bid me never hope again. Yet the longing of my soul,
Old Moloch walks the way tonight On Flander’s poppied field, Where foe meets foe in steel and m… And never one shall yield. Old Moloch of the fiery shrine,
Now with the dust that bore him he… Silent, into into earth’s silent m… Dimmed is his light, as with the s… He folds his steps unto the God w… When shall the weak stand and rejo…
As I lie in bed, Flat on my back; There passes across my ceiling An endless panaroma of things— Quick steps of gay-voiced children…
Blue eyes, gray eyes, All the eyes that be, Hold within their changing depths Wealth of charm to me. Dark-eyed maid, of moment’s fancy,
I know not why or whence he came Or how he chanced to go; I only know he brought me love, And going, left me woe. I do not ask that he turn back
From your life’s blood to coin a t… The past, the present and the futu… To hold—and weave it to a ringing… That sounds within the changing he…
The band of Gideon roam the sky, The howling wind is their war-cry, The thunder roll is their trump’s… And the lightning flash their veng… Each black cloud
Were you to come, With your clear, gray eyes As calmly placid as, in summer’s h… At noontide lie the sultry skies; With your dark, brown hair
I sometimes wonder if the mighty… Cares aught about the little deeds… And if their day and time can reac… Or raise their breath above the hu… Does He who lightly holds th’ ete…
Love is the soothing voice of gods To which men ever list. Love is the ease of soul’s travail And sorrow’s alchemist.
On such a day as this I think, On such a day as this, When earth and sky and nature’s wh… Are clad in April’s bliss; And balmy zephyrs gently waft
