#AmericanWriters
This doll upon the topmost bough, This playmate-gift, in Christmas… Was taken down and brought to me One sleety night most comfortless. Her hair was gold, her dolly-sash
It is portentous, and a thing of s… That here at midnight, in our litt… A mourning figure walks, and will… Near the old court-house pacing up… Or by his homestead, or in shadowe…
She was taught desire in the stree… Not at the angels’ feet. By the good no word was said Of the worth of the bridal bed. The secret was learned from the vi…
I know a seraph who has golden eye… And hair of gold, and body like th… Here in the wind I dream her unbo… Is blowing round me, that desire’s… Has touched her pale keen face, an…
[How different people and differen… The Old Horse in the City The moon’s a peck of corn. It lie… Heaped up for me to eat. I wish that I might climb the pat…
(What the Mendicant Said ) The moon’s a monk, unmated, Who walks his cell, the sky. His strength is that of heaven-vow… Who all life’s flames defy.
A curse upon each king who leads h… No matter what his plea, to this f… And may it end his wicked dynasty, And may he die in exile and black… If there is vengeance in the Heav…
The Moon’s the North Wind’s cook… He bites it, day by day, Until there’s but a rim of scraps That crumble all away. The South Wind is a baker.
Let not young souls be smothered o… They do quaint deeds and fully fla… It is the world’s one crime its ba… Its poor are ox-like, limp and lea… Not that they starve; but starve s…
(A Poem Game.) “Down cellar,” said the cricket, “Down cellar,” said the cricket, “Down cellar,” said the cricket, “I saw a ball last night,
When Bryan speaks, the town’s a h… From miles around, the autos drive… The sparrow chirps. The rooster c… The place is kicking and alive. When Bryan speaks, the bunting gl…
Thou wilt not sentence to eternal… My soul that prays that it may sle… Like a white statue dropped into t… Covered with sand, covered with ch… And slave-bones, tossed from many…
(To Eudora, after I had had ce… When Dragon-fly would fix his win… When Snail would patch his house, When moths have marred the overcoa… Of tender Mister Mouse,
Look you, I’ll go pray, My shame is crying, My soul is gray and faint, My faith is dying. Look you, I’ll go pray—
(IN THE BEGINNING) The sun is a huntress young, The sun is a red, red joy, The sun is an indian girl, Of the tribe of the Illinois.