#AmericanWriters
Sun and wind and beat of sea, Great lands stretching endlessly’… Where be bonds to bind the free? All the world was made for me!
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,
The poet pursues his beautiful the… The preacher his golden beatitude; And I run after a vanishing dream… The glittering, will-o’-the-wispis… Of the properly scholarly attitude…
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.
Look up . . . From bleakening hills Blows down the light, first breath Of wintry wind . . . look up, and… The snow!
Have yet forgot, sweet birds, How near the heaven’s lie? Drooping, sick-pinion’d, oh Have yet forgot the sky? The air that once I knew
(1) The rose new-opening saith, And the dew of the morning saith, (Fallen leaves and vanished dew) Remember death.
What words Are left thee then Who hast squandered on thy Forgetfulness eternity’s I Love?
He comes from Mass early in the m… The sky’s the very blue Madonna w… The air’s alive with gold! Mark y… The birds sing and the dusted shim… On leaf and fruit?..Per Bacco, wh…
Is it as plainly in our living sho… By slant and twist, which way the…
You nor I nor nobody knows Where our daily-taken breath Vanisheth and vanisheth: Where our lost breath’s flying goe… You nor I nor nobody knows.
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…
As it Were tissue of silver I’ll wear, O Fate, thy grey, And go mistily radiant, clad Like the moon.
White doves of Cytherea, by your… Across the blue Heaven’s bluest h… And by your certain homing to Lov… Still to be true and ever true -…