#AmericanWriters
Roses, rooted warm in earth, Bud in rhyme, another age; Lilies know a ghostly birth Strewn along a patterned page; Golden lad and chimbley sweep
Were you to cross the world, my de… To work or love or fight, I could be calm and wistful here, And close my eyes at night. It were a sweet and gallant pain
Some men, some men Cannot pass a Book shop. (Lady, make your mind up, and wait… Some men, some men
If, with the literate, I am Impelled to try an epigram, I never seek to take the credit; We all assume that Oscar said it.
Only name the day, and we’ll fly a… In the face of old traditions, To a sheltered spot, by the world… Where we’ll park our inhibitions. Come and gaze in eyes where the lo…
It costs me never a stab nor squir… To tread by chance upon a worm. “Aha, my little dear,” I say, “Your clan will pay me back one da…
Little things that no one needs— Little things to joke about— Little landscapes, done in beads. Little morals, woven out, Little wreaths of gilded grass,
Razors pain you; Rivers are damp; Acids stain you; And drugs cause cramp. Guns aren’t lawful;
What time the gifted lady took Away from paper, pen, and book, She spent in amorous dalliance (They do those things so well in…
Hope it was that tutored me, And Love that taught me more; And now I learn at Sorrow’s knee The self-same lore.
Unseemly are the open eyes That watch the midnight sheep, That look upon the secret skies Nor close, abashed, in sleep; That see the dawn drag in, unbidde…
For one, the amaryllis and the ros… The poppy, sweet as never lilies a… The ripen’d vine, that beckons as… The dancing star. For one, the trodden rosemary and…
God’s acre was her garden-spot, sh… She sat there often, of the Summe… Little and slim and sweet, among t… Her hair a fable in the leveled ra… She turned the fading wreath, the…
I never may turn the loop of a roa… Where sudden, ahead, the sea is ly… But my heart drags down with an an… My heart, that a second before was… I never behold the quivering rain—
In May my heart was breaking– Oh, wide the wound, and deep! And bitter it beat at waking, And sore it split in sleep. And when it came November,