#Americans #XXCentury
Here we are, picking the first fer… And saying: When shall we get bac… Here we are because we have the K… We have no comfort because of thes… We grub the soft fern—shoots,
Thy soul Grown delicate with satieties, Atthis. O Atthis, I long for thy lips.
They say the roads of Sanso are s… Sheer as the mountains. The walls rise in a man’s face, Clouds grow out of the hill at his horse’s bridle.
Come, my songs, let us express our… Let us express our envy for the ma… You are very idle, my songs, I fear you will come to a bad end. You stand about the streets, You…
While my hair was still cut straig… I played about the front gate, pul… You came by on bamboo stilts, play… You walked about my seat, playing… And we went on living in the villa…
The family position was waning, And on this account the little Au… Who had laughed on eighteen summer… Now bears the palsied contact of…
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…
There is no land like England Where banks rise day by day, There are no banks like English b… To make the people pay. There is no such land of castles
IN o more for us the little sighi… No more the winds at twilight trou… Lo the fair dead! No more do I burn. No more for us the fluttering of w…
Your songs? Oh! The little mothers Will sing them in the twilight, And when the night Shrinketh the kiss of the dawn
You played and sang a snatch of so… A song that all-too well we knew; But whither had flown the ancient… And was it really I and you? O, since the end of life’s to live
I make a pact with you, Walt Whit… I have detested you long enough. I come to you as a grown child Who has had a pig—headed father; I am old enough now to make friend…
Come, let us pity those who are be… come, my friend, and remember that the rich have butlers and no… And we have friends and no butlers… Come, let us pity the married and…
And before hell mouth; dry plain and two mountains; On the one mountain, a running for… and another In the turn of the hill; in hard s…
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
