#AmericanWriters
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…
THE old Old winds that blew When chaos was, what do They tell the clattered trees that… Should weep?
A-sway, On red rose, A golden butterfly. . And on my heart a butterfly Night-wing’d.
Oh me, Was there a time When Paradise knew Eve In this sweet guise, so placid and
The morning is new and the skies a… The day cometh in with the sun and… Hasten, belov’ed! For see, while you were yet sleepi… The cool and virgin feet of dawn w…
Well and If day on day Follows and weary year On year . . . and ever days and ye… Well?
No guile? Nay, but so strangely He moves among us. . Not this Man but Barabbas! Release to us Barabbas!
With night’s Dim veil and blue I will cover my eyes, I will bind close my eyes that are So weary.
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…
Pain ebbs, And like cool balm, An opiate weariness Settles on eye-lids, on relaxed Pale wrists.
Wouldst thou find my ashes? Look In the pages of my book; And as these thy hand doth turn, Know here is my funeral urn.
White doves of Cytherea, by your… Across the blue Heaven’s bluest h… And by your certain homing to Lov… Still to be true and ever true -…
Little Sister Rose-Marie, Will thy feet as willing-light Run through Paradise, I wonder, As they run the blue skies under, Willing feet, so airy-light?
Sea-foam And coral! Oh, I’ll Climb the great pasture rocks And dream me mermaid in the sun’s Gold flood.
For Aubrey Beardsley’s picture Pierrot is dying: Tiptoe in, Finger touched to lip, Harlequin,