#AmericanWriters
White from her chrysalis of cloud, The moth-like moon swings upward t… And all the bee-like stars that cr… The hollow hive of heav’n wane in… Along the distance, folds of mist
High as a star, yet lowly as a flo… Unknown she takes her unassuming p… At Earth’s proud masquerade-the a… Strikes, and, behold, the marvel o…
Be of good cheer, and have no fear Of Fortune or Tomorrow: To Hope’s low whisper lend an ear And turn away from Sorrow. Time out of mind the soul is blind
When Lydia smiles, I seem to see The walls around me fade and flee; And, lo, in haunts of hart and hin… I seem with lovely Rosalind, In Arden 'neath the greenwood tre…
THIS world is made a witchcraft… With gazing on a woman’s face. Now ’tis her smile, whose sorcery Turns all my thoughts to melody. Now ’tis her frown, that comes and…
High on a throne of noisome ooze a… ‘Mid rotting trees of bayou and la… Ghastly she sits beneath the skele… A tawny horror coiling at her feet Fever, whose eyes keep watching, s…
There is a path that leads Through purple iron-weeds, By button-bush and mallow Along a creek; A path that wildflowers hallow,
This is the heart’s own day: With dreaming eyes Life seems to look away Beyond the skies Into some long-gone May.
There is no Paradise like that wh… Deep in the heavens of her azure e… There is no Eden here on Earth th… Like that which smiles rich in her…
THEY pass, with heavy eyes and h… Before the Christ upon the Cross, The Nations, stricken with their… And lifting faces of despair. What is the prayer they pray to H…
Once when the park Was very dark I slipped out and went walking; And heard the trees To the summer breeze,
What joy you take in making hotnes… In emphasising dulness with your b… Making monotony more monotonous! When Summer comes, and drouth hat… In all the creeks, we hear your ra…
Over heaven clouds are drifted; In the trees the wind-witch cries; By her sieve the rain is sifted, And the clouds at times are rifted By her mad broom as she flies.
GREEN, watery jets of light let… The rippling foliage drenched with… And golden glimmers, warm and dim, That in the vistaed distance swim; Where, 'round the wood-spring’s oo…
There was once a little boy— So my father told me—who Never cared for any toy, But just sweet things, as boys do, Cakes and comfits, cream and ice,