#AmericanWriters
I know I am but summer to your he… And not the full four seasons of t… And you must welcome from another… Such noble moods as are not mine,… No gracious weight of golden fruit…
I will be the gladdest thing Under the sun! I will touch a hundred flowers And not pick one. I will look at cliffs and clouds
No matter what I say, All that I really love Is the rain that flattens on the b… And the eel-grass in the cove; The jingle-shells that lie and ble…
Detestable race, continue to expun… Breed faster, crowd, encroach, sin… Make speeches, unveil statues, iss… Convert again into explosives the… Convert again into putrescent matt…
Here is a wound that never will he… Being wrought not of a dearness an… But of a love turned ashes and the… Gone out of beauty; never again wi… The grass on that scarred acre, th…
“Heaven bless the babe!” they said… “What queer books she must have re… (Love, by whom I was beguiled, Grant I may not bear a child.) “Little does she guess to-day
I thought, as I wiped my eyes on… Penelope did this too. And more than once: you can’t keep… And undoing it all through the nig… Your arms get tired, and the back…
When I too long have looked upon… Wherein for me a brightness unobsc… Save by the mists of brightness ha… And terrible beauty not to be endu… I turn away reluctant from your li…
Not in this chamber only at my bir… When the long hours of that myster… Were over, and the morning was in… I cried, but in strange places, st… I have not seen, through alien gri…
Listen, children: Your father is dead. From his old coats I’ll make you little jackets; I’ll make you little trousers
If it were only still!— With far away the shrill Crying of a cock; Or the shaken bell From a cow’s throat
No hawk hangs over in this air: The urgent snow is everywhere. The wing adroiter than a sail Must lean away from such a gale, Abandoning its straight intent,
Make bright the arrows Gather the shields: Conquest narrows The peaceful fields. Stock well the quiver
Love, though for this you riddle m… And drag me at your chariot till… Oh, heavy prince! Oh, panderer of… Yet hear me tell how in their thro… Who shout you mighty: thick about…
Brother, that breathe the August… Ten thousand years from now, And smell—if still your orchards b… Tart apples on the bough— The early windfall under the tree,