#Americans
They who take courage from their o… Are victors too, no matter how muc…
What is that which walks by night In flying tatters of leaves and we… When the clouds rush by like daemo… And the moon is a jack-o’-lantern… Low in the pool’s dark reeds?
About the time when bluebells swin… Their elfin belfries for the bee And in the fragrant House of Spri… Wild Music moves; and Fantasy Sits weaving webs of witchery:
She was strange as the orchids tha… And glimmer and shower their balm And bloom on the tropical ocean, That crystals round islands of pal… And she sang to and beckoned and b…
Devil’s Race-Horse seems to me Strangest thing I ever saw: Up in our old maple-tree They’re at home; stand rearingly, Lean of neck and long of claw.
She sleeps; he sings to her. The… And, tired out with too much happi… She fain would have him sing of ol… Quaint songs, that spoke of love i… Her restless soul was straight bes…
Inspiration. All who have toiled for Art, who’… Sat equal priests at her high Pen… Only the chrism and sacrament of f… Anointing all, inspired not all th…
‘He cometh not,’ she said.’ —MARIANA It will not be to-day and yet I think and dream it will; and let The slow uncertainty devise
When you and I in the hills went… You and I in the bright May weath… The birds, that sang on the boughs… There in the green of the woods, k… All that my heart was saying low,
O Dark-Eyed goddess of the marble… Whose look is silence and whose to… Who walkest lonely through the wor… Who sittest lonely with Life’s bl… Who in the hollow hours of night’s…
I had not found the road too short… As once I had in days of youth, In that old forest of long ruth, Where my young knighthood broke it… Ere love and it had come to part,
The bitter-sweet and red-haw in he… And in her hair pale berries of th… She haunts the coves and every Ca… The Indian, Autumn, wandered from… Beside the sea, upon a rock, she s…
His Birthday, October the 7th, 19… RILEY, whose pen has made the wo… Whose Art has kept you young thro… Brimming our hearts with laughter… Holding her faith pure to the very…
She walks the woods, when evening… With spirits of the winds and leav… And to her side the soul she calls Of every flower she perceives. She walks with introspective eyes
PROEM THE Nights of song and story, With breath of frost and rain, Whose locks are wild and hoary, Whose fingers tap the pane
