#AmericanWriters
I know Not these my hands And yet I think there was A woman like me once had hands Like these.
Than spring’s new scents The winter’s earliest wind Blows from the hills the first fai… Of Snow. Why have I
Dost thou Not feel them slip, How cold! how cold! the moon’s Thin wavering finger-tips, along Thy throat?
A laggard in the rear of time’s sw… And one who loiters on an aimless… Through lands he knows not; lured… In secret paths where silence hold… And rust ascending wings. Roads m…
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,
Grey gaolers are my griefs That will not let me free; The bitterness of tears Is warder unto me. I may not leap or run;
The long night through and still a… Estranged from eyes that very wear… Makes blind to dawn.
But me They cannot touch, Old age and death. .the strange And ignominious end of old Dead folk!
Meet thou the event And terrible happening of Thine end: for thou art come Upon the remote, cold place Of ultimate dissolution and
Peter stands by the gate, And Michael by the throne. ‘Peter, I would pass the gate And come before the throne.’ ‘Whose spirit prayed never at the…
Look up . . . From bleakening hills Blows down the light, first breath Of wintry wind . . . look up, and… The snow!
Behold her, Running through the waves Eager to reach the land; The water laps her, Sun and wind are on her,
And the centurion who stood by sai… Truly this was a son of God. Not long ago but everywhere I go There is a hill and a black windy… Portent of hill, sky, day’s eclips…
A flickering light near spent Her pale hand bore. Have you seen Angelique? Will she know the place Dead feet must find,