#AmericanWriters
Thick is the darkness - Sunward, O, sunward! Rough is the highway - Onward, still onward! Dawn harbours surely
O thou newcomer who seek’st Rome… And find’st in Rome no thing thou… Arches worn old and palaces made c… Rome’s name alone within these wal… Behold how pride and ruin can befa…
Simon Zelotes speaketh it somewhi… Ha’ we lost the goodliest fere o’… For the priests and the gallows tr… Aye lover he was of brawny men, O’ ships and the open sea.
«I am thy soul, Nikoptis. I have… These five millennia, and thy dead… Moved not, nor ever answer my desi… And thy light limbs, wherethrough… Burn not with me nor any saffron t…
Good God! They say you are risqué… O canzonetti! We who went out into the four A.… Composing our albas, We who shook off our dew with the…
Like a skein of loose silk blown a… She walks by the railing of a path… And she is dying piece—meal of a sort of emotional anæmia. And round about there is a rabble
FROM 'DIE HEIMKEHR’ Is your hate, then, of such measur… Do you, truly, so detest me? Through all the world will I comp… Of how you have addressed me.
My City, my beloved, my white! Ah… Listen! Listen to me, and I will… Delicately upon the reed, attend m… Now do I know that I am mad, For here are a million people surl…
These fought in any case, and some believing pro domo, in any case ..... Died some, pro patria, walked eye—deep in hell
A poor clerk I, 'Arnaut the less’… And because I have small mind to… Day long, long day cooped on a sto… A-jumbling o’ figures for Maitre… I ha’ taken to rambling the South…
I can not bow to woo thee With honey words and flower kisses And the dew of sweet half—truths Fallen on the grass of old quaint… Of broidered days foredone.
Be in me as the eternal moods of the bleak wind, and not As transient things are— gaiety of flowers. Have me in the strong loneliness
‘Tis Evanoe’s, A house not made with hands, But out somewhere beyond the world… Her gold is spread, above, around,… Strange ways and walls are fashion…
Turned from the 'eau-forte Par Jaquemart’ To the strait head Of Messalina: ‘His true Penelope
Where forlorn sunsets flare and fa… On desolate sea and lonely sand, Out of the silence and the shade What is the voice of strange comma… Calling you still, as friend calls…
