#AmericanWriters
My little one, sleep softly Among the toys and flowers. Sleep softly, O my first-born son… Through all the long dark hours. And if you waken far away
She heard the children playing in… And through her window saw the whi… Sway like a film of silver in the… Under the purple hills; and one by… She noted chairs and cabinets, and…
Poet, sing me a song to-day! But the world grows old and my hai… Ah no! there are birds on the lila… And a snow-drop out of the wet ear… Two chattering robins are planning…
E. H. M. Nov. 17th, 1890—Feb. 13th, 1904 Still he lies, Pale, wan, and strangely wise. Under the white coverlet
Your voice, beloved, on the living… Borne to me by the spirit powerful Who binds the atoms and leaps out… Great suns together! Ah, what mag… Strung for God’s fingers, sounds…
Sometimes I laugh’what else can… Who does not know? This little eg… Braving the void, this fleck upon… This filmy wing sounding the starr… What bold abysmal incongruity,
WASHINGTON WHEN dreaming kings, at odds wit… Would strike that banner down, A nobler knight than ever writ or… With fame’s bright wreath did crow…
In lazy laughing Panama— O flutter of ribbon 'twixt the sea… The low-roofed houses lie afloat, White foam-drift of the Caribbees… Under lithe palms that fan the sky
Pearl-gray is the sky, And high within it, sailing by, Three sea-gulls fly. Pearl-white are they Against the sky’s obscurer gray—
How wild, how witch-like weird tha… That the insensate rock dared drea… And take to bursting out and burge… Oh, long ago—yo ho!— And wearing green! How stark and…
There is a legend—you have read it… Of a fair page whom evil spells Held in deep sleep; and men of cre… Tried all in vain, the story tells… Week after week, by night and noon…
Where bold Sierras cut the sky Mount Whitney, of the high most h… Halts the pale clouds that wander… We crept and climbed with eager fe… Until the world, fulfilled, comple…
The wind comes riding down from he… Ho! wind of heaven, what do you br… Cool for the dawn, dew for the eve… And every sweetest thing. O wind of heaven, from pink clouds…
You are a painter—listen— I’ll paint you a picture too! Of the long white lights that glis… Through Michigan Avenue; With the red lights down the middl…
He built a tower for all to see, With sun-washed gardens planted wi… And there with pomp of pageantry, With men-at-arms and minstrelsy And moonbeam ladies fair and free,