#AmericanWriters
The narrow streets cut into the wi… Dark oxen, white horses, drag on the seven coaches with out… The coaches are perfumed wood, The jewelled chair is held up at 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…
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…
I would bathe myself in strangenes… These comforts heaped upon me, smo… I burn, I scald so for the new, New friends, new faces, Places!
The very small children in patched… Being smitten with an unusual wisd… Stopped in their play as she passe… And cried up from their cobbles: Guarda! Ahi, guarda! Ch’ è be’ a!
Why does the horse-faced lady of j… Walk down Longacre reciting Swinb… Why does the small child in the so… Crawl in the very black gutter ben… Why does the really handsome young…
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…
While the west is paling Starshine is begun. While the dusk is failing Glimmers up the sun. So, till darkness cover
WITH strawberries we filled a tr… And then we drove away, away Along the links beside the sea, Where wave and wind were light and… And August felt as fresh as May.
Because a lady asks me, I would t… Of an affect that comes often and… And is so overweening; Love by na… E’en its deniers can now hear the… I for the nonce to them that know…
All the while they were talking th… Her eyes explored me. And when I rose to go Her fingers were like the tissue Of a Japanese paper napkin.
LOQUITUR: En Betrans de Born. Dante Alighieri put this man in h… Eccovi! Judge ye! Have I dug him up again?
O helpless few in my country, remn… Artists broken against her, A-stray, lost in the villages, Mistrusted, spoken-against, Lovers of beauty, starved,
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
Go, dumb-born book, Tell her that sang me once that so… Hadst thou but song As thou hast subjects known, Then were there cause in thee that…