#AmericanWriters
You bid me hold my peace And dry my fruitless tears, Forgetting that I bear A pain beyond my years. You say that I should smile
The snow lies deep upon the ground… And winter’s brightness all around Decks bravely out the forest sere, With jewels of the brave old year. The coasting crowd upon the hill
HOME agin, an’ home to stay — Yes, it’s nice to be away. Plenty things to do an’ see, But the old place seems to me Jest about the proper thing.
THE gray dawn on the mountain top Is slow to pass away. Still lays him by in sluggish drea… The golden God of day. And then a light along the hills,
SILENCE, and whirling worlds af… Through all encircling skies. What floods come o’er the spirit’s… What wondrous thoughts arise. The earth, a mantle falls away,
WHO dat knockin’ at de do’? Why, Ike Johnson, —yes, fu’ sho! Come in, Ike. I’s mighty glad You come down. I t’ought you’s mad
Oh, summer has clothed the earth In a cloak from the loom of the su… And a mantle, too, of the skies’ s… And a belt where the rivers run. And now for the kiss of the wind,
De axes has been ringin’ in de woo… An’ de chips has been a—fallin’ fa… Dey has cut de bigges’ hick’ry dat… An’ dey’s laid hit down and soaked… Den dey tuk hit to de big house an…
The gray of the sea, and the gray… A glimpse of the moon like a half—… The gleam on the waves and the lig… A thrill in my heart,—and—my sweet… She turned from the sea with a wom…
THE sky of brightest gray seems d… To one whose sky was ever white. To one who never knew a spark, Thro’ all his life, of love or lig… The grayest cloud seems over—brigh…
THE rain streams down like harp—s… The wind, that world—old harpist,… And ever as he sings his low refra… He plays upon the harp—strings of…
Duck come switchin’ 'cross de lot Hi, oh, Miss Lady! Hurry up an’ hide de pot Hi, oh, Miss Lady! Duck’s a mighty 'spicious fowl,
UNCLE JOHN, he makes me tired; Thinks 'at he’s jest so all—fired Smart, 'at he kin pick up, so, Ever’thing he wants to know. Tried to ketch me up last night,
WHEN labor is light and the morn… I find it a pleasure beyond all co… To hitch up my nag and go hurrying… And take Katie May for a ride int… For bumpety—bump goes the wagon,
The word is writ that he who runs… What is the passing breath of eart… But to snatch glory from the hands… That is to be, to live, to strive… A poor Virginia cabin gave the se…