#AmericanWriters
There’s little in taking or giving… There’s little in water or wine; This living, this living, this liv… Was never a project of mine. Oh, hard is the struggle, and spar…
“Then we will have tonight!” we sa… “Tomorrow– may we not be dead?” The morrow touched our eyes, and f… Us walking firm above the ground, Our pulses quick, our blood alight…
Upon the work of Walter Landor I am unfit to write with candor. If you can read it, well and good; But as for me, I never could.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti Buried all of his libretti, Thought the matter over - then Went and dug them up again.
Authors and actors and artists and… Never know nothing, and never know… Sculptors and singers and those of… Tell their affairs from Seattle t… Playwrights and poets and such hor…
Oh, ponder, friend, the porcupine; Refresh your recollection, And sit a moment, to define His means of self-protection. How truly fortified is he!
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…
All her hours were yellow sands, Blown in foolish whorls and tassel… Slipping warmly through her hands; Patted into little castles. Shiny day on shiny day
My land is bare of chattering folk… The clouds are low along the ridge… And sweet’s the air with curly smo… From all my burning bridges.
Dear dead Victoria Rotted cosily; In excelsis gloria, And R. I. P. And her shroud was buttoned neat,
There was a rose that faded young; I saw its shattered beauty hung Upon a broken stem. I heard them say, “What need to c… With roses budding everywhere?”
She that begs a little boon (Heel and toe! Heel and toe!) Little gets– and nothing, soon. (No, no, no! No, no, no!) She that calls for costly things
Oh, mercifullest one of all, Oh, generous as dear, None lived so lowly, none so small… Thou couldst withhold thy tear: How swift, in pure compassion,
Dearest one, when I am dead Never seek to follow me. Never mount the quiet hill Where the copper leaves are still, As my heart is, on the tree
Then let them point my every tear, And let them mock and moan; Another week, another year, And I’ll be with my own Who slumber now by night and day