#AmericanWriters
Not thou, White rose, but thy Ensanguined sister is The dear companion of my heart’s Shed blood.
Great Kings were dust and all the… Did my harp’s taut and burnished s… The fragrance of dead ladies’ love… Blew never down but for my lute.
But me They cannot touch, Old age and death. .the strange And ignominious end of old Dead folk!
All day, all day I brush My golden strands of hair; All day I wait and wait.. Ah, who is there? Who calls? Who calls? The gold
Lo, how they weave– the imperturba… Those threads that are my destiny: Steadily at the eternal task they’… Industrious . . . indifferent . .… Weave, Fates! And what your spins…
Dost thou Not feel them slip, How cold! how cold! the moon’s Thin wavering finger-tips, along Thy throat?
Fate Defied As it Were tissue of silver I’ll wear, O fate, thy grey, And go mistily radiant, clad
In your Curled petals what ghosts Of blue headlands and seas, What perfumed immortal breath sigh… Of Greece.
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,
‘Let me be young,’ the Latmian sh… ‘And let me have on night-time hil… Whom she of Cynthus saw, Heaven’s… And gave his youth and dreams her… What news comrade upon the mountai…
Art thou Not kin to him Who loved Mark’s wife and both Died for it? O, thou harper in Green woods?
The cold With steely clutch Grips all the land. .alack The little people in the hills Will die!
As I went, as I went Over the mountains, I heard, I heard, Through cloud-wreath and mist, A hound that was baying -
Seen on a night in November How frail Above the bulk Of crashing water hangs, Autumn, evanescent, wan,
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…