#AmericanWriters
What thou lovest well remains, the rest is dross What thou lov’st well shall not be… What thou lov’st well is thy true…
When I am old I will not have you look apart From me, into the cold, Friend of my heart, Nor be sad in your remembrance
The Sword Singing - The voice of the Sword from the h… Clanging imperious Forth from Time’s battlements
O you away high there, you that lean From amber lattices upon the cobal… I am below amid the pine trees, Amid the little pine trees, hear m…
We shall surely die: Must we needs grow old? Grow old and cold, And we know not why? O, the By-and-By,
“Tout aux tavernes et aux filles.” Suppose you screeve? or go cheap-j… Or fake the broads? or fig a nag? Or thimble-rig? or knap a yack? Or pitch a snide? or smash a rag?
Who, who will be the next man to e… Love interferes with fidelities; The gods have brought shame on the… Each man wants the pomegranate for… Amiable and harmonious people are…
To one, on returning certain years… You wore the same quite correct cl… You took no pleasure at all in my… You had the same old air of condes… Mingled with a curious fear
I sat on the Dogana’s steps For the gondolas cost too much, th… And there were not “those girls”,… And the Buccentoro twenty yards o… And the lit cross—beams, that year…
When you wake in your crib, You, an inch of experience - Vaulted about With the wonder of darkness; Wailing and striving
And then went down to the ship, Set keel to breakers, forth on the… We set up mast and sail on that sw… Bore sheep aboard her, and our bod… Heavy with weeping, and winds from…
WIND Scarce and thin, scarce and thin The government’s excuse, Never at all will they do Aught of the slightest use.
The rustling of the silk is discon… Dust drifts over the court-yard, There is no sound of foot-fall, an… Scurry into heaps and lie still, And she the rejoicer of the heart…
The scientists are in terror and the European mind stops Wynham Lewis chose blindness rather than have his mind stop. Night under wind mid garofani,
I am a grave poetic hen That lays poetic eggs And to enhance my temperament A little quiet begs. We make the yolk philosophy,