#AmericanWriters
Twelve fleeting years ago my Myrt… (Ehu fugaces! maybe more) I wrote of the directoire skirt You wore. Ten years ago, Myrtilla mine,
“C’est distingue,” says Madame La… ’Tis a fabric of subtle distinctio… For street wear it is superb. The chic of the Rue de la Paix— The style of Fifth Avenue—
I saw him lying cold and dead Who yesterday was whole. “Why,” I inquired, “hath he expir… And why hath fled his soul? ”but yesterday," his comrade said,
Horace: Book III, Ode 30 “Exegi monumentum aere perennius—” The monument that I have built is… And loftier than the Pyramids whi… No blizzard can destroy it, nor fu…
Sing, O Muse, in treble clef, A little song of the A.E.F., And pardon me, please, if I give… To something akin to sentiment. But we have our moments Over Here
BY MOTHER GOOSE AND O… Bennie’s kisses left me cold, Eddie’s made me yearn to die, Jimmie’s made me laugh aloud,— But Georgie’s made me cry.
These are the saddest of possible… Tinker to Evers to Chance. Trio of Bear-cubs, fleeter than b… Tinker to Evers to Chance. Ruthlessly pricking our gonfalon b…
(An Apartmental Ditty.) Mine be a flat beside the Hill; A vendor’s cry shall soothe my ear A landlord shall present his bill At least a dozen times a year.
When first I doffed my olive drab… I thought, delightfully though mut… “Henceforth I shall have pleasure… Solutely.” Dull with the drudgery of war,
Before I was a travelled bird, I scoffed, in my provincial way, At other lands; I deemed absurd All nations but these U.S.A. And—although Middle-Western born—
“BEE” PALMER has taken the raw human—all too human—stuff of the underworld, with its sighs of sadness and regret, its mad merriment, its swift blaze of passion, its turbulent dances, it...
Tell me not, in doctored numbers, Life is but a name for work! For the labour that encumbers Me I wish that I could shirk. Life is phony! Life is rotten!
’Twas on the shores that round our… From Deal to Newport lie That I roused from sleep in a hud… An elderly wealthy guy. His hair was graying, his hair was…
(Why don’t you ever write any chil… —A MOTHER.) My right-hand neighbour hath a chi… A pretty child of five or six, Not more than other children wild,
Propertius: Elegy VIII, Part 1 “Tune igitur demens nec te mea cur… O Cynthia, hast thou lost thy min… Have I no claim on thine affectio… Dost love the chill Illyrian wind