#AmericanWriters
My heart went fluttering with fear Lest you should go, and leave me h… To beat my breast and rock my head And stretch me sleepless on my bed… Ah, clear they see and true they s…
She that begs a little boon (Heel and toe! Heel and toe!) Little gets– and nothing, soon. (No, no, no! No, no, no!) She that calls for costly things
There’s many and many, and not so… Is willing to dry my tears away; There’s many to tell me what you a… And never a lie to all they say. It’s little the good to hide my he…
New love, new love, where are you… All along a narrow way that marks… How are you to slake me, and how a… With bitter yellow berries, and a… New love, new love, shall I be fo…
My garden blossoms pink and white, A place of decorous murmuring, Where I am safe from August night And cannot feel the knife of Spri… And I may walk the pretty place
You are brief and frail and blue– Little sisters, I am, too. You are Heaven’s masterpieces– Little loves, the likeness ceases.
The things she knew, let her forge… The voices in the sky, the fear, t… The gaping shepherds, and the quee… Piling their clumsy gifts of forei… Let her have laughter with her lit…
The sun’s gone dim, and The moon’s turned black; For I loved him, and He didn’t love back.
You know the bloom, unearthly whit… That none has seen by morning ligh… The tender moon, alone, may bare Its beauty to the secret air. Who’d venture past its dark retrea…
When my eyes are weeds, And my lips are petals, spinning Down the wind that has beginning Where the crumpled beeches start In a fringe of salty reeds;
Roses, rooted warm in earth, Bud in rhyme, another age; Lilies know a ghostly birth Strewn along a patterned page; Golden lad and chimbley sweep
Too long and quickly have I lived… The woe that stretches me shall ne… Too often seen the end of endless… To swear that peace no more shall… I know, I know– again the shrivel…
This is what I vow; He shall have my heart to keep, Sweetly will we stir and sleep, All the years, as now. Swift the measured sands may run;
Upon the work of Walter Landor I am unfit to write with candor. If you can read it, well and good; But as for me, I never could.
The days will rally, wreathing Their crazy tarantelle; And you must go on breathing, But I’ll be safe in hell. Like January weather,