#AmericanWriters
Dance! Dance! The priest is yellow with sunflowe… He is yellow with corn-meal, He is yellow as the sun.
Oblong, its jutted ends rounding i… The old sunken basin lies with its… An inch below the terrace tiles. Over the stagnant water Slide reflections:
Over the housetops, Above the rotating chimney-pots, I have seen a shiver of amethyst, And blue and cinnamon have flicker… A moment,
The scent of hyacinths, like a pal… between me and my book; And the South Wind, washing throu… Makes the candles quiver. My nerves sting at a spatter of ra…
Wax-white— Floor, ceiling, walls. Ivory shadows Over the pavement Polished to cream surfaces
See! He trails his toes Through the long streaks of moonli… And the nails of his fingers glitt… They claw and flash among the tree… His lips suck at my open window,
I pray to be the tool which to you… Long use has shaped and moulded ti… Apt for your need, and, unconsider… You take it for its service. I de… To be forgotten in the woven stran…
The neighbour sits in his window a… From my bed I can hear him, And the round notes flutter and ta… And hit against each other, Blurring to unexpected chords.
Forever the impenetrable wall Of self confines my poor rebelliou… I never see the towering white clo… Before a sturdy wind, save through… Barred window of my jail. I live…
This little bowl is like a mossy p… In a Spring wood, where dogtooth… Nodding in chequered sunshine of t… A quiet place, still, with the sou… Where, though unseen, is heard the…
A near horizon whose sharp jags Cut brutally into a sky Of leaden heaviness, and crags Of houses lift their masonry Ugly and foul, and chimneys lie
WHEN night drifts along the stre… And sifts down between the uneven… My mind begins to peek and peer. It plays at ball in old, blue Chi… And shakes wrought dice-cups in P…
Throughout the echoing chambers of… I hear your words in mournful cade… Like some slow passing-bell which… Of sundering darkness. Unrelentin… To batter down resistance, fall ag…
How is it that, being gone, you fi… And all the long nights are made g… No loneliness is this, nor misery, But great content that these shoul… Whereby the Fancy, dreaming as sh…
Happiness, to some, elation; Is, to others, mere stagnation. Days of passive somnolence, At its wildest, indolence. Hours of empty quietness,