#AmericanWriters
We talk of taxes, and I call you… Well, such you are,—but well enoug… How thick about us root, how rankl… Those subtle weeds no man has need… That flourish through neglect, and…
Let them bury your big eyes In the secret earth securely, Your thin fingers, and your fair, Soft, indefinite-colored hair,— All of these in some way, surely,
Strong sun, that bleach The curtains of my room, can you n… Colourless this dress I wear?— This violent plaid Of purple angers and red shames; t…
Heap not on this mound Roses that she loved so well: Why bewilder her with roses, That she cannot see or smell? She is happy where she lies
I looked in my heart while the wil… And what did I see I had not seen… Only a question less or a question… Nothing to match the flight of wil… Tiresome heart, forever living and…
XLI I, being born a woman and distress… By all the needs and notions of my… Am urged by your propinquity to fi… Your person fair, and feel a certa…
Oh, my beloved, have you thought o… How in the years to come unscrupul… More cruel than Death, will tear… And make you old, and leave me in… How you and I, who scale together…
In the spring of the year, in the… I walked the road beside my dear. The trees were black where the bar… I see them yet, in the spring of t… He broke me a bough of the blossom…
She is neither pink nor pale, And she never will be all mine; She learned her hands in a fairy-t… And her mouth on a valentine. She has more hair than she needs;
Love, though for this you riddle m… And drag me at your chariot till… Oh, heavy prince! Oh, panderer of… Yet hear me tell how in their thro… Who shout you mighty: thick about…
If I should learn, in some quite… That you were gone, not to return… Read from the back-page of a paper… Held by a neighbor in a subway tra… How at the corner of this avenue
Ho, Giant! This is I! I have built me a bean-stalk into… La,—but it’s lovely, up so high! This is how I came,—I put Here my knee, there my foot,
Time cannot break the bird’s wing… Bird and wing together Go down, one feather. No thing that ever flew, Not the lark, not you,
Think not, not for a moment let yo… Wearied with thinking, doze upon t… That the work’s done and the long… And beauty, since 'tis paid for, c… If in the moonlight from the silen…
“Thin Rain, whom are you haunting… That you haunt my door?” —Surely it is not I she’s wanting… Someone living here before— “Nobody’s in the house but me:
