#Americans #XXCentury
’Tis not a game that plays at mate… Provençe knew; ’Tis not a game of barter, lands a… Provençe knew. We who are wise beyond your dream…
Cydonian Spring with her attendan… Maelids and water-girls, Stepping beneath a boisterous wind… Throughout this sylvan place Spreads the bright tips,
The full sea rolls and thunders In glory and in glee. O, bury me not in the senseless ea… But in the living sea! Ay, bury me where it surges
And the days are not full enough And the nights are not full enough And life slips by like a field mou… Not shaking the grass
In vain have I striven, to teach my heart to bow; In vain have I said to him ‘There be many singers greater tha… But his answer cometh, as winds an…
I have tried to write Paradise Do not move Let the wind speak that is paradise. Let the Gods forgive what I
In the cream gilded cabin of his s… Mr. Nixon advised me kindly, to a… Dangers of delay. ‘Consider Carefully the reviewer. ’I was as poor as you are;
LOQUITUR: En Betrans de Born. Dante Alighieri put this man in h… Eccovi! Judge ye! Have I dug him up again?
The jewelled steps are already qui… It is so late that the dew soaks m… And I let down the crystal curtai… And watch the moon through the cle…
The West a glimmering lake of lig… A dream of pearly weather, The first of stars is burning whit… The star we watch together. Is April dead? The unresting year
Blue, blue is the grass about the… And the willows have overfilled th… And within, the mistress, in the m… White, white of face, hesitates, p… Slender, she puts forth a slender…
Io! Io! Tamuz! The Dryad staiids in my court-yar… With plaintive, querulous crying. (Tamuz. Io! Tamuz!) Oh, no, she is not crying: ‘Tamuz…
These tales of old disguisings, ar… Strange myths of souls that found… Unwonted folk that spake an hostil… Some soul from all the rest who’d… The star—span acres of a former lo…
Gone while your tastes were keen t… Gone where the grey winds call to… By that high fencer, even Death, Struck of the blade that no man pa… Such is your fence, one saith,
I am a grave poetic hen That lays poetic eggs And to enhance my temperament A little quiet begs. We make the yolk philosophy,