#AmericanWriters
What have I done for you, England, my England? What is there I would not do, England, my own? With your glorious eyes austere,
For the seven lakes, and by no man… Rain; empty river; a voyage, Fire from frozen cloud, heavy rain… Under the cabin roof was one lante… The reeds are heavy; bent;
I even I, am he who knoweth the r… Through the sky, and the wind ther… I have beheld the Lady of Life, I, even I, who fly with the swall… Green and gray is her raiment,
By the North Gate, the wind blows… Lonely from the beginning of time… Trees fall, the grass goes yellow… I climb the towers and towers to watch out the barbarous land:
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…
The jewelled steps are already qui… It is so late that the dew soaks m… And I let down the crystal curtai… And watch the moon through the cle…
Who am I to condemn you, O Dives… I who am as much embittered With poverty As you are with useless riches?
Even in my dreams you have denied… And sent me only your handmaids.
March has come to the bridge head, Peach boughs and apricot boughs ha… gates, At morning there are flowers to cu… And evening drives them on the eas…
‘Tis not a game that plays at ma… Provençe knew; ’Tis not a game of barter, lands a… Provençe knew. We who are wise beyond your dream…
Where forlorn sunsets flare and fa… On desolate sea and lonely sand, Out of the silence and the shade What is the voice of strange comma… Calling you still, as friend calls…
Phyllidula and the Spoils of Gouv… Where, Lady, are the days When you could go out in a hired h… Without footmen and equipments? And dine in a soggy, cheap restaur…
It is, and is not, I am sane enou… Since you have come this place has… This fabrication built of autumn r… Then there’s a goldish colour, dif… And one gropes in these things as…
Kung walked by the dynastic temple and into the cedar grove, and then out by the lower river, And with him Khieu Tchi
The nightingale has a lyre of gold… The lark’s is a clarion-call, And the blackbird plays but a boxw… But I love him best of all. For his song is all of the joy of…