#AmericanWriters
Ere the horne’d owl hoot Once and twice and thrice there sh… Go among the blind brown worms News of thy great burial; When the pomp is passed away,
But me They cannot touch, Old age and death. .the strange And ignominious end of old Dead folk!
Little Sister Rose-Marie, Will thy feet as willing-light Run through Paradise, I wonder, As they run the blue skies under, Willing feet, so airy-light?
Behold her, Running through the waves Eager to reach the land; The water laps her, Sun and wind are on her,
Never the nightingale, Oh, my dear, Never again the lark Thou wilt hear; Though dusk and the morning still
Scarlet the poppies Blue the corn-flowers, Golden the wheat. Gold for the Eternal: Blue for Our Lady:
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…
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…
Listen . . . With faint dry sound, Like steps of passing ghosts, The leaves, frost-crisp’d, break f… And fall.
Oh me, Was there a time When Paradise knew Eve In this sweet guise, so placid and
Look up . . . From bleakening hills Blows down the light, first breath Of wintry wind . . . look up, and… The snow!
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…
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 know Not these my hands And yet I think there was A woman like me once had hands Like these.
The shadowy boy of night Crosses the dusking land; He sows his poppy-seeds With steady, gentle hand. The shadowy boy of night