#Americans
I see by the morning papers That America’s sturdy sons Have started a investigation Of the making of guns. The morning paper tells me
We flash across the level. We thunder thro’ the bridges. We bicker down the cuttings. We sway along the ridges. A rush of streaming hedges,
Gone while your tastes were keen t… Gone where the grey winds call to… By that high fencer, even Death, Struck of the blade that no man pa… Such is your fence, one saith,
The red and green kingfishers flash between the orchids and clov… One bird casts its gleam on anothe… Green vines hang through the high… They weave a whole roof to the mou…
(Abbreviated from the conversation… Over the flat slope of St Eloi A wide wall of sandbags. Night, In the silence desultory men
Io! Io! Tamuz! The Dryad staiids in my court-yar… With plaintive, querulous crying. (Tamuz. Io! Tamuz!) Oh, no, she is not crying: ‘Tamuz…
How will this beauty, when I am f… Sweep back upon me and engulf my m… How will these hours, when we twai… Turned in their sapphire tide, com…
The good Bellaires Do not understand the conduct of t… In fact they understood them so ba… That they have had to cross the C… Nine lawyers, four counsels, five…
Midnight, and a letter comes to me… Telling me to come to Tibur: At once!! ‘Bright tips reach up from twin to… ’Anienan spring water falls into f…
Go, my songs, seek your praise fro… and from the intolerant, Move among the lovers of perfectio… Seek ever to stand in the hard So… And take you wounds from it gladly…
Though thou well dost wish me ill Audiart, Audiart, Where thy bodice laces start As ivy fingers clutching through Its crevices,
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.
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…
This thing, that hath a code and n… Hath set acquaintance where might… And nothing now Disturbeth his reflections.
The nightingale has a lyre of gold… The lark’s is a clarion-call, And the blackbird plays but a boxw… But I love him best of all. For his song is all of the joy of…
