#AmericanWriters
Hold your apron wide That I may pour my gifts into it, So that scarcely shall your two ar… From falling to the ground. I would pour them upon you
Great master! Boyish, sympathetic… Whose orbed and ripened genius lig… From life’s slim, twisted tendril… In crimson-sphered completeness; g… Of crystal portals through whose o…
Why do you subdue yourself in gold… Why do you dim yourself with folde… Do you not see that I can buy bro… And that I am choked in the twili… How pale you would be, and startli…
What instinct forces man to journe… Urged by a longing blind but domin… Nothing he sees can hold him, noth… His never failing eagerness. The… Setting in splendour every night h…
Over the shop where silk is sold Still the dragon kites are flying.
My heart is tuned to sorrow, and t… Vibrate most readily to minor chor… Searching and sad; my mind is stuf… Which voice the passion and the ac… Illusions beating with their baffl…
As I sit here in the quiet Summer… Suddenly, from the distant road, t… The grind and rush of an electric… And, from still farther off, An engine puffs sharply,
The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and narcissus in the air. The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and bores through the water in the bath-tub...
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…
Slowly, without force, the rain dr… on the carved head of Saint John,… over his stone cloak. It splashes… and falls from it in turmoil on th… Where are the people, and why does…
A bullet through his heart at dawn. On the table a letter signed with a woman’s name. A wind that goes howling round the house, and weeping as in shame. Cold November dawn peeping throu...
Like black ice Scrolled over with unintelligible… by an ignorant skater Is the dulled surface of my heart.
The vine leaves against the brick… Are rusty and broken. Dead leaves gather under the pine-… The brittle boughs of lilac-bushes Sweep against the stars.
They have watered the street, It shines in the glare of lamps, Cold, white lamps, And lies Like a slow-moving river,
I have been temperate always, But I am like to be very drunk With your coming. There have been times I feared to walk down the street
