#AmericanWriters
Chloe’s hair, no doubt, was bright… Lydia’s mouth more sweetly sad; Hebe’s arms were rather whiter; Languorous-lidded Helen had Eyes more blue than e’er the sky w…
They hurried here, as soon as you… Their faces damp with haste and sy… And pressed my hand in theirs, and… And clicked their tongues, and wat… Gently they told me of that Other…
Travel, trouble, music, art, A kiss, a frock, a rhyme– I never said they feed my heart, But still they pass my time.
Tonight my love is sleeping cold Where none may see and none shall… The daisies quicken in the mold, And richer fares the meadow grass. The warding cypress pleads the ski…
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,
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
... So, praise the gods, Catullus… And let me tend you this advice, m… Take any lover that you will, or m… Except a poet. All of them are qu… It’s just the same– a quarrel or a…
In the pathway of the sun, In the footsteps of the breeze, Where the world and sky are one, He shall ride the silver seas, He shall cut the glittering wave.
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;
Lady, lady, should you meet One whose ways are all discreet, One who murmurs that his wife Is the lodestar of his life, One who keeps assuring you
All her hours were yellow sands, Blown in foolish whorls and tassel… Slipping warmly through her hands; Patted into little castles. Shiny day on shiny day
Daily I listen to wonder and woe, Nightly I hearken to knave or to… Telling me stories of lava and sno… Delicate fables of ribbon and lace… Tales of the quarry, the kill, the…
Whose love is given over-well Shall look on Helen’s face in hel… Whilst those whose love is thin an… May view John Knox in Paradise.
If it shine or if it rain, Little will I care or know. Days, like drops upon a pane, Slip, and join, and go. At my door’s another lad;
Oh, life is a glorious cycle of so… A medley of extemporanea; And love is a thing that can never… And I am Marie of Roumania.