#AmericanWriters
Wild ridge on ridge the wooded hil… Between whose breezy vistas gulfs… Pilot great clouds like towering a… And hawk and buzzard breast the az… With many a foaming fall and glimm…
The Winter Wind, the wind of deat… Who knocked upon my door, Now through the keyhole entereth, Invisible and hoar: He breathes around his icy breath
Often, when I wake at night, I can hear the strangest sounds, Stealthy noises, left and right, As of some one going his rounds: On the stairs there comes a crack
It is not well For me to dwell On what upon that day befell, On that dark day of fall befell; When through the landscape, bowed…
White moons may come, white moons… She sleeps where early blossoms bl… Knows nothing of the leafy June, That leans above her night and noo… Crowned now with sunbeam, now with…
I Thought of the road through the… With its hawk’s nest high in the p… With its rock, where the fox had h… ‘Mid tangles of sumach and vine, Where she swore to be mine.
Deep with divine tautology, The sunset’s mighty mystery Again has traced the scroll-like w… With hieroglyphs of burning gold: Forever new, forever old,
Far as the eye can see, in domes a… Buttress and curve, ruins of shift… In whose wild making wind and sea… The white dunes stretch. The wind… Striving for strange effects that…
Who knows the things they dream, a… Or feel, who lie beneath the groun… Perhaps the flowers, the leaves, a… That close them round. In spring the violets may spell
All hushed of glee, The last chill bee Clings wearily To the dying aster. The leaves dropp faster:
Baroque, but beautiful, between th… The valves of nacre of a mussel-sh… Behold, a pearl! shaped like the b… Of some strange blossom that long… Of summer coax to open: all the mo…
The hat he wore was full of holes, And his battered shoes were worn t… His shirt was a rag, held together… And his trousers patched with outs… A negro tramp, a roustabout,
Little boy sleepy won’t go to bed, Though the Sand Man came an hour… And sand all under his eyelids spr… Though his eyes are heavy and heav… And his little tired feet seem mad…
Where are they, that song and tale Tell of? lands our childhood knew? Sea-locked Faerylands that trail Morning summits, dim with dew, Crimson o’er a crimson sail.
Squat-nosed and broad, of big and… A tavern visage, apoplexy haunts, All pimple-puffed: the Falstaff-l… Of fat debauchery, whose veined ch… A flabby purple: rusty-spurred he…