#AmericanWriters
What is poetry? Is it a mosaic Of coloured stones which curiously… Into a pattern? Rather glass that… By patient labor any hue to take And glowing with a sumptuous splen…
Look, Dear, how bright the moonli… See where it casts the shadow of t… Far out upon the grass. And every… Of light night wind comes laden wi… Of opening flowers which never blo…
Life! Austere arbiter of each man… By whom he learns that Nature’s s… Are as decrees immutable; O pause Your even forward march! Not yet… Teach me the needed lesson, when t…
Why do you subdue yourself in gold… Why do you dim yourself with folde… Do you not see that I can buy bro… And that I am choked in the twili… How pale you would be, and startli…
You are beautiful and faded Like an old opera tune Played upon a harpsichord; Or like the sun-flooded silks Of an eighteenth-century boudoir.
Alone, I whet my soul against the… Unwrinkled sky, with its long stre… I polish it with sunlight and pale… And damascene it with young blowin… Into the handle of my life I set
As one who sails upon a wide, blue… Far out of sight of land, his mind… Upon the sailing of his little boa… On tightening ropes and shaping fa… Hears suddenly, across the restles…
A black cat among roses, Phlox, lilac-misted under a first-… The sweet smells of heliotrope and… The garden is very still, It is dazed with moonlight,
They brought me a quilled, yellow… Opulent, flaunting. Round gold Flung out of a pale green stalk. Round, ripe gold
Must all of worth be travailled fo… Life’s brightest stars rise from a… Must years go by in sad uncertaint… Leaving us doubting whose the conq… Are we or Fate the victors? Time…
Streaks of green and yellow irides… Silver shiftings, Rings veering out of rings, Silver —gold — Grey-green opaqueness sliding down…
A bullet through his heart at dawn. On the table a letter signed with a woman’s name. A wind that goes howling round the house, and weeping as in shame. Cold November dawn peeping throu...
A flickering glimmer through a win… A dim red glare through mud bespat… Cleaving a path between blown wall… Across uneven pavements sunk in sl… To scatter and then quench itself…
My Grandpapa lives in a wonderful… With a great many windows and door… There are stairs that go up, and s… And such beautiful, slippery floor… But of all of the rooms, even moth…
My heart is tuned to sorrow, and t… Vibrate most readily to minor chor… Searching and sad; my mind is stuf… Which voice the passion and the ac… Illusions beating with their baffl…