#1912 #AmericanWriters #RhymesOfARollingStone
I know a garden where the lilies g… And one who lingers in the sunshin… She is than white—stoled lily far… And oh, her eyes are heaven—lit wi… I know a garret, cold and dark and…
If starry space no limit knows And sun succeeds to sun, There is no reason to suppose Our earth the only one. 'Mid countless constellations cast
In a strange town in a far land They met amid a throng; They stared, they could not unders… How life was sudden song. As brown eyes looked in eyes of gr…
In the dark and damp of the alley… Lay the Christmas tree that hadn’… By a shopman dourly thrown outside… With the ruck and rubble of Chris… Trodden deep in the muck and mire,
Said the Door: “She came in With no shadow of sin; Turned the key in the lock, Slipped out of her frock, The robe she liked best
God gave you guts: don’t let Him… Brace up, be worthy of His giving… The road’s a rut, the sky’s a frow… I know you’re plumb fed up with li… Fate birches you, and wry the rod…
What are you doing here, Tom Thor… Where the wind has the cut of a na… Hugging a smudgy willow fire, deep… You that’s a lord’s own son, Tom… Go home, go home to your clubs, T…
This crowded life of God’s good g… No man has relished more than I; I’ve been so goldarned busy living I’ve never had the time to die. So busy fishing, hunting, roving,
When I blink sunshine in my eyes And hail the amber morn, Before the rosy dew—drop dries With sparkle on the thorn; When boughs with robin rapture rin…
I had a bitter enemy, His heart to hate he gave, And when I died he swore that he Would dance upon my grave; That he would leap and laugh becau…
Full fifty merry maids I heard One summer morn a—singing; And each was like a joyous bird With spring—clear not a—ringing. It was an old—time soldier song
I to a crumpled cabin came upon a hillside high, And with me was a withered dame As weariful as I. “It used to be our home,” she said…
To Dawson Town came Percy Brown… A pane of glass was in his eye, an… Upon the shoulder of his coat a le… To rest his deadly rifle when it w… The which it must have often been,…
A thousand books my library Contains; And all are primed, it seems to me With brains. Mine are so few I scratch in thou…
To have a business of my own With toil and tears, I wore my fingers to the bone For weary years. With stoic heart, for sordid gold