Come my cantilations, Let us dump our hatreds into one b… Hot sun, clear water, fresh wind, Let me be free of pavements, Let me be free of the printers.

To So-Kin of Rakuyo, ancient fri… Gen. Now I remember that you built me… By the south side of the bridge at… With yellow gold and white jewels,…

We are the Choice of the Will: G… That called us into line, set in o… Set us a sword to wield none else… And bade us forth to the sound of… East and west and north, wherever…

Come, my songs, let us speak of pe… We shall get ourselves rather disl… Ah yes, my songs, let us resurrect The very excellent term Rusticus. Let us apply it in all its opprobr…

There’s a regret So grinding, so immitigably sad, Remorse thereby feels tolerant, ev… Do you not know it yet? For deeds undone

We shall surely die: Must we needs grow old? Grow old and cold, And we know not why? O, the By-and-By,

Luini in porcelain! The grand piano Utters a profane Protest with her clear soprano. The sleek head emerges

Turned from the 'eau-forte Par Jaquemart’ To the strait head Of Messalina: ‘His true Penelope

“Thank you, whatever comes” And t… And, as the ray of sun on hanging… Fades when the wind hath lifted th… Went swiftly from me. Nay, whatev… One hour was sunlit and the most h…

The small dogs look at the big dog… They observe unwieldy dimensions And curious imperfections of odor. Here is the formal male group: The young men look upon their seni…

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;

Rest Master, for we be a-weary, w… And would feel the fingers of the… Upon these lids that lie over us Sodden and lead-heavy. Rest brother, for lo! the dawn is…

THE NEO-COMMUNE Manhood of England, Dougth of the Shires, Want Russia to save ‘em And answer their prayers.

Her little face is like a walnut s… With wrinkling lines; her soft, wh… Her withered brows in quaint, stra… And all about her clings an old, s… Prim is her gown and quakerlike he…

The gilded phaloi of the crocuses are thrusting at the spring air. Here is there naught of dead gods But a procession of festival, A procession, Giulio Romano,