#AmericanWriters
Night is my sister, and how deep i… How drowned in love and weedily wa… There to be fretted by the drag an… At the tide’s edge, I lie—these t… Whose arm alone between me and the…
I will be the gladdest thing Under the sun! I will touch a hundred flowers And not pick one. I will look at cliffs and clouds
I am not resigned to the shutting… So it is, and so it will be, for s… Into the darkness they go, the wis… With lilies and with laurel they g… Lovers and thinkers, into the eart…
Cut if you will, with Sleep’s dul… Each day to half its length, my fr… The years that Time take off my l… He’ll take from off the other end!
What lips my lips have kissed, and… I have forgotten, and what arms ha… Under my head till morning; but th… Is full of ghosts tonight, that ta… Upon the glass and listen for repl…
Let us abandon then our gardens an… And sit in the sitting-room Shall the larkspur blossom or the… Sour to the fruitful seed Is the cold earth under this cloud…
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
(He speaks, but to himself, being… Think not I have not heard. Well-fanged the double word And well-directed flew. I felt it. Down my side
If it were only still!— With far away the shrill Crying of a cock; Or the shaken bell From a cow’s throat
The trees along this city street, Save for the traffic and the train… Would make a sound as thin and swe… As trees in country lanes. And people standing in their shade
Once from a big, big building, When I was small, small, The queer folk in the windows Would smile at me and call. And in the hard wee gardens
The courage that my mother had Went with her, and is with her sti… Rock from New England quarried; Now granite in a granite hill. The golden brooch my mother wore
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…
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
Whereas at morning in a Jeweled C… I bit my fingers and was hard to p… Having shook disaster till the fru… I feel tonight more happy and at e… Feet running in the corridors, men…
