#AmericanWriters
Was it love breathed on us as on t… Dawn breathes for a short space an… Or loved we never at all who but m… With too dim vision the guarded my… Were we unfaithful or were we unwi…
In a cave born (Mary said) In a cave is My Son buried
JUST now, Out of the strange Still dusk . . . as strange, as st… A white moth flew . . . Why am I… So cold?
If illness’ end be health regained… Will pay you, Asculapeus, when I…
What words Are left thee then Who hast squandered on thy Forgetfulness eternity’s I Love?
Have yet forgot, sweet birds, How near the heaven’s lie? Drooping, sick-pinion’d, oh Have yet forgot the sky? The air that once I knew
Oh me, Was there a time When Paradise knew Eve In this sweet guise, so placid and
I know Not these my hands And yet I think there was A woman like me once had hands Like these.
Little my lacking fortunes show For this to eat and that to wear; Yet laughing, Soul, and gaily go! An obol pays the Stygian fare. London, 1910
The sun is warm today, O Romulus, and on Thine older Palentine the birds Still sing.
In the cold I will rise, I will b… In waters of ice; myself Will shiver, and shrive myself, Alone in the dawn, and anoint Forehead and feet and hands;
More dim than wining moon Thy face, mort faint Than is the falling wind Thy voice, yet do Thine eyes most strangely glow,
Pain ebbs, And like cool balm, An opiate weariness Settles on eye-lids, on relaxed Pale wrists.
As it Were tissue of silver I’ll wear, O Fate, thy grey, And go mistily radiant, clad Like the moon.
I have minded me Of the noon-day brightness, And the cricket’s drowsy Singing in the sunshine. . I have minded me