#AmericanWriters
The night is come, but not too soo… And sinking silently, All silently, the little moon Drops down behind the sky. There is no light in earth or heav…
By the shore of Gitche Gumee, By the shining Big-Sea-Water, At the doorway of his wigwam, In the pleasant Summer morning, Hiawatha stood and waited.
Let nothing disturb thee, Nothing affright thee All things are passing; God never changeth; Patient endurance
Sadly as some old mediaeval knight Gazed at the arms he could no long… The sword two-handed and the shini… Suspended in the hall, and full in… While secret longings for the lost…
Love, love, what wilt thou with th… Naught see I fixed or sure in the… I do not know thee,—nor what deeds… Love, love, what wilt thou with th… Naught see I fixed or sure in the…
Labor with what zeal we will, Something still remains undone, Something uncompleted still Waits the rising of the sun. By the bedside, on the stair,
Will ever the dear days come back… Those days of June, when lilacs w… And bluebirds sang their sonnets i… Of leaves that roofed them in from… I know not; but a presence will re…
When the hours of Day are numbere… And the voices of the Night Wake the better soul, that slumber… To a holy, calm delight; Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
(Tristia, Book III. Elegy X.) Should any one there in Rome reme… And, without me, my name still in… Tell him that under stars which ne… I am existing still, here in a bar…
Will then, Duperrier, thy sorrow… And shall the sad discourse Whispered within thy heart, by ten… Only augment its force? Thy daughter’s mournful fate, into…
IN that delightful land, which is… Guarding in sylvan shades the name… Stands on the banks of its beautif… There all the air is balm, and the… And the streets still re-echo the…
Between the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to low… Comes a pause in the day’s occupat… That is known as the Children’s H… I hear in the chamber above me
Thus ran the Student’s pleasant r… Of Eginhard and love and youth; Some doubted its historic truth, But while they doubted, ne’erthele… Saw in it gleams of truthfulness,
‘Now that is after my own heart,’ The Poet cried; 'one understands Your swarthy hero Scanderbeg, Gauntlet on hand and boot on leg, And skilled in every warlike art,
MONEY Whereunto is money good? Who has it not wants hardihood, Who has it has much trouble and ca… Who once has had it has despair.
