#AmericanWriters
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…
Behold her, Running through the waves Eager to reach the land; The water laps her, Sun and wind are on her,
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,
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.
‘Boy, lying Where the long grass Edges the pool’s brim, What do you watch There in the water? The blue
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…
No guile? Nay, but so strangely He moves among us. . Not this Man but Barabbas! Release to us Barabbas!
If illness’ end be health regained… Will pay you, Asculapeus, when I…
Burdock, Blue aconite, And thistle and thorn. .of these Singing I wreathe my pretty wreat… O’death.
Listen . . . With faint dry sound, Like steps of passing ghosts, The leaves, frost-crisp’d, break f… And fall.
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
As it Were tissue of silver I’ll wear, O Fate, thy grey, And go mistily radiant, clad Like the moon.
What words Are left thee then Who hast squandered on thy Forgetfulness eternity’s I Love?
(1) The rose new-opening saith, And the dew of the morning saith, (Fallen leaves and vanished dew) Remember death.
Oh me, Was there a time When Paradise knew Eve In this sweet guise, so placid and