#AmericanWriters #Aphorism #Epigram
If I had a shiny gun, I could have a world of fun Speeding bullets through the brain… Of the folk who give me pains; Or had I some poison gas,
There was one a-riding grand On a tall brown mare, And a fine gold band He brought me there. A little, gold band
Because my love is quick to come a… A little here, and then a little t… What use are any words of mine to… My heart is stubborn, and my spiri… Of weathering the drip and drive o…
Men seldom make passes At girls who wear glasses.
Oh, mercifullest one of all, Oh, generous as dear, None lived so lowly, none so small… Thou couldst withhold thy tear: How swift, in pure compassion,
Oh, seek, my love, your newer way; I’ll not be left in sorrow. So long as I have yesterday, Go take your damned tomorrow!
So delicate my hands, and long, They might have been my pride. And there were those to make them… Who for their touch had died. Too frail to cup a heart within,
I’m wearied of wearying love, my f… Of worry and strain and doubt; Before we begin, let us view the e… And maybe I’ll do without. There’s never the pang that was wo…
If, with the literate, I am Impelled to try an epigram, I never seek to take the credit; We all assume that Oscar said it.
Back of my back, they talk of me, Gabble and honk and hiss; Let them batten, and let them be– Me, I can sing them this: “Better to shiver beneath the star…
Half across the world from me Lie the lands I’ll never see– I, whose longing lives and dies Where a ship has sailed away; I, that never close my eyes
I think, no matter where you stray… That I shall go with you a way. Though you may wander sweeter land… You will not soon forget my hands, Nor yet the way I held my head,
Dear dead Victoria Rotted cosily; In excelsis gloria, And R. I. P. And her shroud was buttoned neat,
My hand, a little raised, might pr… Where I may look, the frosted pea… So shaped before Olympus was begu… Spanned each to each, now, by a si… Thus to face Beauty have I travel…
Dearest one, when I am dead Never seek to follow me. Never mount the quiet hill Where the copper leaves are still, As my heart is, on the tree