#Americans
Io! Io! Tamuz! The Dryad staiids in my court-yar… With plaintive, querulous crying. (Tamuz. Io! Tamuz!) Oh, no, she is not crying: ‘Tamuz…
These fought in any case, and some believing pro domo, in any case ..... Died some, pro patria, walked eye—deep in hell
At Rochecoart, Where the hills part in three ways, And three valleys, full of winding… Fork out to south and north,
How many will come after me singing as well as I sing, none be… Telling the heart of their truth as I have taught them to tell it; Fruit of my seed,
There is a truce among the gods, Kore is seen in the North Skirting the blue-gray sea In gilded and russet mantle. The corn has again it’s mother and…
O you away high there, you that lean From amber lattices upon the cobal… I am below amid the pine trees, Amid the little pine trees, hear m…
For the Marriage in Cana of Gali… Dark-eyed, O woman of my dreams, Ivory sandalled, There is none like thee among the…
I had over prepared the event, that much was ominous. With middle—ageing care I had laid out just the right book… I had almost turned down the pages…
A Lady asks me I speak in season She seeks reason for an affect, wi… That is so proud he hath Love for… Who denys it can hear the truth no…
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…
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…
And the days are not full enough And the nights are not full enough And life slips by like a field mou… Not shaking the grass
May I for my own self song’s trut… Journey’s jargon, how I in harsh… Hardship endured oft. Bitter breast—cares have I abided… Known on my keel many a care’s hol…
This lady in the white bath-robe w… peignoir, Is, for the time being, the mistre… And the delicate white feet of her… Are not more delicate than she is,
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