#AmericanWriters
There is a path that leads Through purple iron-weeds, By button-bush and mallow Along a creek; A path that wildflowers hallow,
There’s a little fairy who Peeps from every dropp of dew: You can see him wink and shine On the morning-glory vine, Mischief in his eye of blue.
Wherein is it so beautiful? In all things dim and all things c… In silence, that is built of leave… And wind and spray of waterfall; And, golden as the half-ripe sheav…
He stands above all worldly schism… And, gazing over life’s abysm Beholds within the starry range Of heaven laws of death and change… That, through his soul’s prophetic…
You, who are met to remember Kentucky and give her praise; Who have warmed your hearts at the… Of her love for many days! Be faithful to your mother,
There is a voice that calls to me;… That calls within my heart of hear… When Summer doffs her crown, my d… The spirit of September walks thr… It calls my heart beyond the mart,…
The hot sunflowers by the glaring… Lift shields of sultry brass; the… Pink-thorned, advance with bristli… Against the furious sunlight. Fie… Are sick with summer: now, with br…
The day is dead; and in the west The slender crescent of the moon Diana’s crystal-kindled crest Sinks hillward in a silvery swoon. What is the murmur in the dell?
No more for him, where hills look… Shall Morning crown Her rainy brow with blossom bands!… The Morning Hours, whose rosy han… Drop wildflowers of the breaking s…
He held himself splendidly forward Both early and late; The aim of his purpose was starwar… To master his fate: So he wrought and he toiled and he…
When dusk falls cool as a rained-o… And a tawny tower the twilight sho… With the crescent moon, the silver… A turret window that grows a-light… There is a path that my Fancy kno…
‘T is n’t long till Christmas now… First thing that you’ll know, it’s… Nurse can tell it, don’t know how, By the smell o’ th’ atmosphere, Shivery and never clear.
What mines the morning heavens unf… What far Alaskas of the skies! That, veined with elemental gold, Sierra on Sierra rise. Heap up the gold of all the world,
The hills are full of prophecies And ancient voices of the dead; Of hidden shapes that no man sees, Pale, visionary presences, That speak the things no tongue ha…
Roses, brier on brier, Like a hedge of fire, Walled it from the world and rolle… Crimson ‘round it; manifold Blossoms, ’mid which once of old