#AmericanWriters
I walk down the garden paths, And all the daffodils Are blowing, and the bright blue s… I walk down the patterned garden p… In my stiff, brocaded gown.
How empty seems the town now you a… A wilderness of sad streets, where… Hide nothing to desire; sunshine f… Eery, distorted, as it long had sh… On white, dead faces tombed in hal…
Some men there are who find in nat… Their inspiration, hers the sympat… Which spurs them on to any great e… To them the fields and woods are c… And they hold dear communion with…
A yellow band of light upon the st… Pours from an open door, and makes… Pathway of bright gold across a sh… Of calm and liquid moonshine. Fro… Come shouts and streams of laughte…
The throats of the little red trum… And the clangour of brass beats ag… They bray and blare at the burning… Red! Red! Coarse notes of red, Trumpeted at the blue sky.
The Fool Errant sat by the highwa… And his gaze wandered up and his g… A vigorous youth, but with no wish… Yet his longing was great for the… He whistled a little frivolous tun…
High up above the open, welcoming… It hangs, a piece of wood with col… Once, long ago, it was a waving tr… And knew the sun and shadow throug… Of forest trees, in a thick easter…
I have whetted my brain until it i… So keen that it nicks off the floa… So sharp that the air would turn i… Were it to be twisted in flight. Licking passions have bitten their…
Sea Shell, Sea Shell, Sing me a song, O Please! A song of ships, and sailor men, And parrots, and tropical trees, Of islands lost in the Spanish Ma…
When I have baked white cakes And grated green almonds to spread… When I have picked the green crow… And piled them, cone-pointed, in a… When I have smoothed the seam of…
The chatter of little people Breaks on my purpose Like the water-drops which slowly… And while I laugh My spirit crumbles at their teasin…
“So . . .” they said, With their wine-glasses delicately… Mocking at the thing they cannot u… “So . . .” they said again, Amused and insolent.
All night I wrestled with a memor… Which knocked insurgent at the gat… The crumbled wreck of years behind… Its disillusion; now I only cry For peace, for power to forget the…
Beneath this sod lie the remains Of one who died of growing pains.
I own a solace shut within my hear… A garden full of many a quaint del… And warm with drowsy, poppied suns… Flaming with lilies out of whose c… Shining things
