#AmericanWriters
I know I might have lived in such… As to have suffered only pain: Loving not man nor dog; Not money, even; feeling Toothache perhaps, but never more…
I could not bring this splendid wo… In charge of it, to defer, no, not… Appearance, to my handsome prophec… which here I ponder and put by. I am left simpler, less encumbered…
I, having loved ever since I was… wavered In these affections; never through… rich or in the presence of clergym… loves;
My candle burns at both ends; It will not last the night; But ah, my foes, and oh, my friend… It gives a lovely light.
Euclid alone has looked on Beauty… Let all who prate of Beauty hold… And lay them prone upon the earth… To ponder on themselves, the while… At nothing, intricately drawn nowh…
Oh, Prue she has a patient man, And Joan a gentle lover, And Agatha’s Arth’ is a hug-the-h… But my true love’s a rover! Mig, her man’s as good as cheese
If I were to walk this way Hand in hand with Grief, I should mark that maple-spray Coming into leaf. I should note how the old burrs
What should I be but a prophet an… Whose mother was a leprechaun, who… Teethed on a crucifix and cradled… What should I be but the fiend’s… And who should be my playmates but…
Listen, children: Your father is dead. From his old coats I’ll make you little jackets; I’ll make you little trousers
VIII8. Oh, oh, you will be sorry for that… . Give back my book and take my kiss… .
Well, I have lost you; and I lost… In my own way, and with my full co… Say what you will, kings in a tumb… Went to their deaths more proud th… Some nights of apprehension and ho…
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…
This door you might not open, and… So enter now, and see for what sli… You are betrayed.... Here is no t… No cauldron, no clear crystal mirr… The sought-for truth, no heads of…
Searching my heart for its true so… This is the thing I find to be: That I am weary of words and peop… Sick of the city, wanting the sea; Wanting the sticky, salty sweetnes…
Minstrel, what have you to do With this man that, after you, Sharing not your happy fate, Sat as England’s Laureate? Vainly, in these iron days,