#AmericanWriters
Than spring’s new scents The winter’s earliest wind Blows from the hills the first fai… Of Snow. Why have I
Burdock, Blue aconite, And thistle and thorn. .of these Singing I wreathe my pretty wreat… O’death.
In a cave born (Mary said) In a cave is My Son buried
Art thou Not kin to him Who loved Mark’s wife and both Died for it? O, thou harper in Green woods?
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…
Nor stars . . the dark . . and in The dark the grey Ghost glimmer of the olive trees The black straight rows Of Cypresses.
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
A flickering light near spent Her pale hand bore. Have you seen Angelique? Will she know the place Dead feet must find,
And the centurion who stood by sai… Truly this was a son of God. Not long ago but everywhere I go There is a hill and a black windy… Portent of hill, sky, day’s eclips…
Force and bluster? Mighty threate… Scorn I lightly, - Not for these. Tell me when shall great Orion Catch the flying Pleuades?
If illness’ end be health regained… Will pay you, Asculapeus, when I…
Hear thou my lamentation, Eros, Aphrodite’s son! My heart is broken and my days are… Where the woods are dark and the s… Eros!
Still as On windless nights The moon-cast shadows are, So still will be my heart when I Am dead.
Every day, Every day, Tell the hours By their shadows, By their shadows.
I make my shroud, but no one knows… So shimmering fine it is and fair, With stitches set in even rows, I make my shroud, but no one knows… In door-way where the lilac blows,