#AmericanWriters
The roofs are shining from the rai… The sparrows tritter as they fly, And with a windy April grace The little clouds go by. Yet the back-yards are bare and br…
I cannot die, who drank delight From the cup of the crescent moon, And hungrily as men eat bread, Loved the scented nights of June. The rest may die—but is there not
I heard a cry in the night, A thousand miles it came, Sharp as a flash of light, My name, my name! It was your voice I heard,
I. Spirit’s House From naked stones of agony I will build a house for me; As a mason all alone I will raise it, stone by stone,
I wish for such a lot of things That never will come true ' And yet I want them all so much I think they might, don’t you? I want a little kitty-cat
Was Time not harsh to you, or was… O pale Erinna of the perfect lyre… That he has left no word of singin… Whereby you waked the dreaming Le… And kindled night along the lyric…
They came to tell your faults to m… They named them over one by one; I laughed aloud when they were don… I knew them all so well before, - Oh, they were blind, too blind to…
I am wild, I will sing to the tre… I will sing to the stars in the sk… I love, I am loved, he is mine, Now at last I can die! I am sandaled with wind and with f…
The birds are all a-building, They say the world’s a-flower, And still I linger lonely Within a barren bower. I weave a web of fancies
The April night is still and swee… With flowers on every tree; Peace comes to them on quiet feet, But not to me. My peace is hidden in his breast
Your lines that linger for us down… Like sparks that tell the glory of… Still keep alight the splendor of… And living still, they sting us in… Sole perfect singer that the world…
Less than the cloud to the wind, Less than the foam to the sea, Less than the rose to the storm, Am I to thee. More than the star to the night,
When we come home at night and clo… Standing together in the shadowy r… Safe in our own love and the gentl… Glad of familiar wall and chair an… Glad to leave far below the clangi…
Lyric night of the lingering Indi… Shadowy fields that are scentless… Never a bird, but the passionless… Ceaseless, insistent. The grasshopper’s horn, and far-of…
Was that his step that sounded on… Was that his knock I heard upon t… I grow so tired I almost cease to… And yet I would that he might com… It was the wind I heard, that moc…