#Americans #Women
Battles nor songs can from oblivio… But Fame upon a white deed loves… From out that cup of water Sidney… Not one drop has been spilled.
I am thy grass, O Lord! I grow up sweet and tall But for a day; beneath Thy sword To lie at evenfall. Yet have I not enough
To the sweet memory of Sidney Lan… The old house stands deserted, gra… With sharpened gables high in air, And deep-set lattices, all gay With massive arch and framework ra…
An apple orchard smells like wine; A succory flower is blue; Until Grief touched these eyes of… Such things I never knew. And now indeed I know so plain
Lydia is gone this many a year, Yet when the lilacs stir, In the old gardens far or near, The house is full of her. They climb the twisted chamber sta…
This is the house where I was bre… The wind blows through it without… The wind bitten by the roadside mi… Here brake I loaf, here climbed t… The fuchsia on the window sill;
OH, the littles that remain! Scent of mint out in the lane; Flare of window; sound of bees;— These, but these. Three times sitting down to bread;
Dark, thinned, beside the wall of… The box dripped in the air; Its odor through my house was blow… Into the chamber there. Remote and yet distinct the scent,
Along the pastoral ways I go, To get the healing of the trees, The ghostly news the hedges know; To hive me honey like the bees, Against the time of snow.
A rhyme of good Death’s inn! My love came to that door; And she had need of many things, The way had been so sore. My love she lifted up her head,
When I consider Life and its few… A wisp of fog betwixt us and the s… A call to battle, and the battle d… Ere the last echo dies within our… A rose choked in the grass; an hou…
The little Jesus came to town; The wind blew up, the wind blew do… Out in the street the wind was bol… Now who would house Him from the… Then opened wide a stable door,
Brother of mine, good monk with co… Walled from that world which thou… And pacing thy green close beyond… I send my heart to thee. Down gust-sweet walks, bordered by…
It is too early for white boughs,… For snows. From out the hedge the… A few last flakes, ragged and deli… Down the stripped roads the maples… Soft, ’wildering fires. Stained a…
Love came back at fall o’ dew, Playing his old part; But I had a word or two That would break his heart. ‘He who comes at candlelight,