#AmericanWriters
Too far afield thy search. Nay, t… At thine own elbow potent Memory… Thy double, and eternity is cupped In the pale hollow of those ghostl…
But me They cannot touch, Old age and death. .the strange And ignominious end of old Dead folk!
Listen . . . With faint dry sound, Like steps of passing ghosts, The leaves, frost-crisp’d, break f… And fall.
How can you lie so still? All day… And never a blade of all the green… To show where restlessly you toss… And fling a desperate arm or draw… Stiffened and aching from their lo…
Musicians O Musicians: Heartseas… Heartsease: an you will have me li… Light wind in the small green leav… Play, oh play, my sad heart ease; Birds, shake from your wilding thr…
For Aubrey Beardsley’s picture Pierrot is dying: Tiptoe in, Finger touched to lip, Harlequin,
A-sway, On red rose, A golden butterfly. . And on my heart a butterfly Night-wing’d.
He comes from Mass early in the m… The sky’s the very blue Madonna w… The air’s alive with gold! Mark y… The birds sing and the dusted shim… On leaf and fruit?..Per Bacco, wh…
Still as On windless nights The moon-cast shadows are, So still will be my heart when I Am dead.
Joy! Joy! Joy! The hills are glad, The valleys re-echo with merriment… In my heart is the sound of laught… And my feet dance to the time of i…
Thou hast Drawn laughter from A well of secret tears And thence so elvish it rings, –mo… And sweet.
Is it as plainly in our living sho… By slant and twist, which way the…
With swift Great sweep of her Magnificent arm my pain Clanged back the doors that shut m… From life.
I make my shroud, but no one knows… So shimmering fine it is and fair, With stitches set in even rows, I make my shroud, but no one knows… In door-way where the lilac blows,
The sun is warm today, O Romulus, and on Thine older Palentine the birds Still sing.