#Americans #XXCentury
Aye! I am a poet and upon my tomb Shall maidens scatter rose leaves And men myrtles, ere the night Slays day with her dark sword. ‘Lo! this thing is not mine
Phyllidula and the Spoils of Gouv… Where, Lady, are the days When you could go out in a hired h… Without footmen and equipments? And dine in a soggy, cheap restaur…
All night, and as the wind lieth a… The cypress trees, he lay, Nor held me save as air that brush… Close, and as the petals of flower… Waver and seem not drawn to earth,…
The sky-like limpid eyes, The circular infant’s face, The stiffness from spats to collar Never relaxing into grace; The heavy memories of Horeb, Sina…
With minds still hovering above th… Certain poets here and in France Still sigh over established and na… Long since fully discussed by Ovi… They howl. They complain in delic…
See, they return; ah, see the tent… Movements, and the slow feet, The trouble in the pace and the un… Wavering! See, they return, one by one,
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
Blue mountains to the north of the… White river winding about them; Here we must make separation And go out through a thousand mile… Mind like a floating wide cloud,
Ha! sir, I have seen you sniffing… about among my flowers. And what, pray, do you know about horticulture, you capriped? ‘Come, Auster, come Apeliota,
On the loan exhibit of his paintin… You also, our first great, Had tried all ways; Tested and pried and worked in man… And this much gives me heart to pl…
The lateral vibrations caress me, They leap and caress me, They work pathetically in my favou… They seek my financial good. She of the spear stands present.
Staring corpselike at the ceiling, See his harsh, unrazored features, Ghastly brown against the pillow, And his throat-so strangely bandag… Lack of work and lack of victuals,
Put of the night that covers me, Black as the Pit from pole to pol… I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the full clutch of circumstance…
The twisted rhombs ceased their cl… The scorched laurel lay in the fir… The moon still declined to descend… But the black ominous owl hoot was… And one raft bears our fates
What have I done for you, England, my England? What is there I would not do, England, my own? With your glorious eyes austere,