#AmericanWriters
I sat on the Dogana’s steps For the gondolas cost too much, th… And there were not “those girls”,… And the Buccentoro twenty yards o… And the lit cross—beams, that year…
I do not choose to dream; there co… Some strange old lust for deeds. As to the nerveless hand of some o… The sword—hilt or the war—worn won… Brings momentary life and long—fle…
The gilded phaloi of the crocuses are thrusting at the spring air. Here is there naught of dead gods But a procession of festival, A procession, Giulio Romano,
For God, our God is a gallant foe That playeth behind the veil. I have loved my God as a child at… That seeketh deep bosoms for rest, I have loved my God as a maid to…
I see by the morning papers That America’s sturdy sons Have started a investigation Of the making of guns. The morning paper tells me
Go, my songs, to the lonely and th… Go also to the nerve-racked, go to… Bear to them my contempt for their… Go as a great wave of cool water, Bear my contempt of oppressors.
This government official Whose wife is several years his se… Has such a caressing air When he shakes hands with young la… (Pompes Funèbres)
The greater masters of the commonp… REMBRANDT and good SIR WA… Could paint her all to you: experi… And antique liveliness and pondero… The sweet old roses of her sunken…
Be in me as the eternal moods of the bleak wind, and not As transient things are’ gaiety of flowers. Have me in the strong loneliness
M. Pom-POM allait en guerre Per vendere cannoni Mon beau grand frère Ne peut plus voir Per vendere cannoni.
May I for my own self song’s trut… Journey’s jargon, how I in harsh… Hardship endured oft. Bitter breast—cares have I abided… Known on my keel many a care’s hol…
BALLAD FOR THE TIMES… Sez the Times a silver lining Is what has set us pining, Montague, Montague! In the season sad and weary
Like a skein of loose silk blown a… She walks by the railing of a path… And she is dying piece—meal of a sort of emotional anæmia. And round about there is a rabble
Aye you’re a man that! ye old mesm… Tyin’ your meanin’ in seventy swad… One must of needs be a hang’d earl… To catch you at worm turning. Hol… ‘Cat’s i’ the water butt!' Though…
The rustling of the silk is discon… Dust drifts over the court-yard, There is no sound of foot-fall, an… Scurry into heaps and lie still, And she the rejoicer of the heart…