#AmericanWriters
Pain ebbs, And like cool balm, An opiate weariness Settles on eye-lids, on relaxed Pale wrists.
(Girl’s Song) In Babylon, in Nineveh, And long ago, and far away, The lilies and the lotus blew That are my sweet of youth to-day.
Oh Lady, let the sad tears fall To speak thy pain, Gently as through the silver dusk The silver rain. Oh, let thy bosom breathe its grie…
O mia Luna! Porta mi fortuna! (You must say it nine times, curts… In rose-pale, fading blue of twili… See, the new moon’s thin crescent… Nine times I’ll curtsey murmuring…
In a cave born (Mary said) In a cave is My Son buried
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…
So may you sleep alway, My baby, my dear son: Amen, Amen, Amen. My baby, my dear son.
Look up . . . From bleakening hills Blows down the light, first breath Of wintry wind . . . look up, and… The snow!
The long night through and still a… Estranged from eyes that very wear… Makes blind to dawn.
If illness’ end be health regained… Will pay you, Asculapeus, when I…
Is it as plainly in our living sho… By slant and twist, which way the…
All day, all day I brush My golden strands of hair; All day I wait and wait.. Ah, who is there? Who calls? Who calls? The gold
I have no heart for noon-tide and… But I will take me where more ten… Shakes, fold on fold, her dewy dar… And shelters me that I may weep i… And feel no pitying eyes, and hear…
For Aubrey Beardsley’s picture Pierrot is dying: Tiptoe in, Finger touched to lip, Harlequin,
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.