#Americans #XXCentury
Trees and the menace of night; Then a long, lonely, leaden mere Backed by a desolate fell, As by a spectral battlement; and t… Low-brooding, interpenetrating all…
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…
The eyes of this dead lady speak t… For here was love, was not to be d… And here desire, not to be kissed… The eyes of this dead lady speak t…
For the Marriage in Cana of Gali… Dark-eyed, O woman of my dreams, Ivory sandalled, There is none like thee among the…
The phoenix are at play on their t… The phoenix are gone, the river H… Flowers and grass Cover over the dark path where lay the dynastic house of th…
Why, my heart, do we love her so? (Geraldine, Geraldine!) Why does the great sea ebb and flo… Why does the round world spin? Geraldine, Geraldine,
Sing we for love and idleness, Naught else is worth the having. Though I have been in many a land… There is naught else in living. And I would rather have my sweet,
I am a grave poetic hen That lays poetic eggs And to enhance my temperament A little quiet begs. We make the yolk philosophy,
O Chansons foregoing You were a seven days’ wonder. When you came out in the magazines You created considerable stir in… And now you are stale and worn out…
For three years, out of key with h… He strove to resuscitate the dead… Of poetry; to maintain “the sublim… In the old sense. Wrong from the… No, hardly, but, seeing he had bee…
The West a glimmering lake of lig… A dream of pearly weather, The first of stars is burning whit… The star we watch together. Is April dead? The unresting year
Rudyard the dud yard, Rudyard the false measure, Told 'em that glory Ain’t always a pleasure, But said it wuz glorious neverthel…
Your mind and you are our Sargass… London has swept about you this sc… And bright ships left you this or… Ideas, old gossip, oddments of all… Strange spars of knowledge and dim…
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,
