#AmericanWriters
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
A-sway, On red rose, A golden butterfly. . And on my heart a butterfly Night-wing’d.
I know Not these my hands And yet I think there was A woman like me once had hands Like these.
JUST now, Out of the strange Still dusk . . . as strange, as st… A white moth flew . . . Why am I… So cold?
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…
O mia Luna! Porta mi fortuna! (You must say it nine times, curts… In rose-pale, fading blue of twili… See, the new moon’s thin crescent… Nine times I’ll curtsey murmuring…
THE old Old winds that blew When chaos was, what do They tell the clattered trees that… Should weep?
Force and bluster? Mighty threate… Scorn I lightly, - Not for these. Tell me when shall great Orion Catch the flying Pleuades?
When I was girl by Nilus stream I watched the deserts stars arise; My lover, he who dreamed the Sphi… Learned all his dreaming from eyes… I bore in Greece a burning name,
Than spring’s new scents The winter’s earliest wind Blows from the hills the first fai… Of Snow. Why have I
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…
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;
Never the nightingale, Oh, my dear, Never again the lark Thou wilt hear; Though dusk and the morning still
The cold With steely clutch Grips all the land. .alack The little people in the hills Will die!