#Americans #Suicide #XIXCentury #XXCentury
The old man had his box and wheel For grinding knives and shears. No doubt his bell in village stree… Was joy to children’s ears. And I bethought me of my youth
Where a river roars in rapids And doves in maples fret, Where peace has decked the pasture… Our guardian angels met. Long they had sought each other
In this, the City of my Disconten… Sometimes there comes a whisper fr… “Romance, Romance—is here. No Hi… Is quite so strange. No Citadel o… By Sinbad found, held half such l…
[Supposed to be chanted to some… Chant we the story now Tho’ in a house we sleep; Tho’ by a hearth of coals Vigil to-night we keep.
FOR A VERY LITTLE GI… CATHARINE FRAZEE WAKEF… The sun gives not directly The coal, the diamond crown; Not in a special basket
Down, down beneath the daisy beds, O hear the cries of pain! And moaning on the cinder-path They’re blind amid the rain. Can murmurs of the worms arise
(Being a Chant of the American… O market square, O slattern place… Is glory in your slack disgrace? Plump quack doctors sell their pil… Gentle grafters sell brass watches…
What is my mast? A pen. What are my sails? Ten crescent m… What is my sea? A bottle of ink. Where do I go? To heaven again. What do I eat? The amaranth flowe…
[To be sung to the tune of The… [Bass drum beaten loudly.] Booth led boldly with his big bass… (Are you washed in the blood of th… The Saints smiled gravely and the…
[Concerning O. Henry (Sidney… “He could not forget that he was a… Is this Sir Philip Sidney, this… The darling of the glad and gaping… This is that dubious hero of the p…
[Written while a field-worker i… King Arthur’s men have come again… They challenge everywhere The foes of Christ’s Eternal Chu… Her incense crowns the air.
My lady in her white silk shawl Is like a lily dim, Within the twilight of the room Enthroned and kind and prim. My lady! Pale gold is her hair.
I hate this yoke; for the world’s… Knowing 'twill weigh as much on yo… Knowing you love your freedom dear… Knowing that love unchained has be… Our one great wine (yet spent too…
The moon’s an open furnace door Where all can see the blast, We shovel in our blackest griefs, Upon that grate are cast Our aching burdens, loves and fear…
He paid a Swede twelve bits an ho… Just to invent a fancy style To spread the celebration paint So it would show at least a mile. Some things they did I will not t…