#AmericanWriters
Nor stars . . the dark . . and in The dark the grey Ghost glimmer of the olive trees The black straight rows Of Cypresses.
THE old Old winds that blew When chaos was, what do They tell the clattered trees that… Should weep?
Great Kings were dust and all the… Did my harp’s taut and burnished s… The fragrance of dead ladies’ love… Blew never down but for my lute.
With night’s Dim veil and blue I will cover my eyes, I will bind close my eyes that are So weary.
Thou beautiful and ivory gates That shut my tears away from me - Even, at last, such refuge yield That great, safe doors of Ebony.
Oh me, Was there a time When Paradise knew Eve In this sweet guise, so placid and
The cold With steely clutch Grips all the land. .alack The little people in the hills Will die!
Joy! Joy! Joy! The hills are glad, The valleys re-echo with merriment… In my heart is the sound of laught… And my feet dance to the time of i…
‘Boy, lying Where the long grass Edges the pool’s brim, What do you watch There in the water? The blue
The sun is warm today, O Romulus, and on Thine older Palentine the birds Still sing.
I know Not these my hands And yet I think there was A woman like me once had hands Like these.
For Aubrey Beardsley’s picture Pierrot is dying: Tiptoe in, Finger touched to lip, Harlequin,
Too far afield thy search. Nay, t… At thine own elbow potent Memory… Thy double, and eternity is cupped In the pale hollow of those ghostl…
Wouldst thou find my ashes? Look In the pages of my book; And as these thy hand doth turn, Know here is my funeral urn.
But me They cannot touch, Old age and death. .the strange And ignominious end of old Dead folk!