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The roses in the window box
Have tilted to one side
Everything about this house
Was born to grow and die

Oh it doesn't seem a year ago
To this very day
You said I'm sorry honey
If I don't change the pace
I can't face another day

And love lies bleeding in my hand
Oh it kills me to think of you with another man
I was playing rock and roll and you were just a fan
But my guitar couldn't hold you
So I split the band
Love lies bleeding in my hands

I wonder if those changes
Have left a scar on you
Like all the burning hoops of fire
That you and I passed through

You're a bluebird on a telegraph line
I hope you're happy now
Well if the wind of change comes down your way girl
You'll make it back somehow

The Norton Anthology of American Literature, 7e : W. W. Norton College Books

#
# Walt Whitman, Song of Myself (1881)
# Mark Twain, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
# Henry James, Daisy Miller
# Kate Chopin, The Awakening
# New Abraham Cahan, The Imported Bridegroom
# New Stephen Crane, Maggie: A Girl of the Streets
# Jack London, To Build a Fire

The Norton Anthology of American Literature, 7e : W. W. Norton College Books

#
# Volume D, 1914-1945
# New Willa Cather, My Antonia
# Susan Glaspell, Trifles
# Ezra Pound, Hugh Selwyn Mauberley
# New Raymond Chandler, Red Wind
# T. S. Eliot, The Waste Land
# Eugene O\'Neill, Long Day\'s Journey into Night
# Nella Larsen, Quicksand
# William Faulkner, As I Lay Dying
# Ernest Hemingway, The Snows of Kilimanjaro
# Volume E: American Literature Since 1945
# Tennessee Williams, A Streetcar Named Desire
# Arthur Miller, Death of a Salesman
# Allen Ginsberg, Howl
# Amiri Baraka, Dutchman
# New Sam Shepard, True West
# David Mamet, Glengarry, Glen Ross
# New Louise Glück, October

Emily Dickenson

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chilliest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.