#AmericanWriters
Than spring’s new scents The winter’s earliest wind Blows from the hills the first fai… Of Snow. Why have I
Art thou Not kin to him Who loved Mark’s wife and both Died for it? O, thou harper in Green woods?
Reap, reap the grain and gather The sweet grapes from the vine; Our Lord’s mother is weeping, She hath nor bread nor wine; She is weeping. The Queen of Hea…
Thou beautiful and ivory gates That shut my tears away from me - Even, at last, such refuge yield That great, safe doors of Ebony.
Never the nightingale, Oh, my dear, Never again the lark Thou wilt hear; Though dusk and the morning still
Pain ebbs, And like cool balm, An opiate weariness Settles on eye-lids, on relaxed Pale wrists.
The poet pursues his beautiful the… The preacher his golden beatitude; And I run after a vanishing dream… The glittering, will-o’-the-wispis… Of the properly scholarly attitude…
Still as On windless nights The moon-cast shadows are, So still will be my heart when I Am dead.
Seen on a night in November How frail Above the bulk Of crashing water hangs, Autumn, evanescent, wan,
I have minded me Of the noon-day brightness, And the cricket’s drowsy Singing in the sunshine. . I have minded me
The sun is warm today, O Romulus, and on Thine older Palentine the birds Still sing.
As I went, as I went Over the mountains, I heard, I heard, Through cloud-wreath and mist, A hound that was baying -
Avis, the fair, at dawn Rose lightly from her bed, Herself arrayed, Avis, the fait, the maid, In vestiment of lawn;
Fate Defied As it Were tissue of silver I’ll wear, O fate, thy grey, And go mistily radiant, clad
The cold With steely clutch Grips all the land. .alack The little people in the hills Will die!