#AmericanWriters
HENCEFORTH, please God, fore… The yoke of men’s opinions. I wil… Light—hearted as a bird, and live… I find him in the bottom of my hea… I hear continually his voice there…
The south—wind brings Life, sunshine, and desire, And on every mount and meadow Breathes aromatic fire, But over the dead he has no power,
Space is ample, east and west, But two cannot go abreast, Cannot travel in it two: Yonder masterful cuckoo Crowds every egg out of the nest,
I SEE all human wits Are measured but a few; Unmeasured still my Shakespeare s… Lone as the blessed Jew.
And I behold once more My old familiar haunts; here the b… The same blue wonder that my infan… Admired, sage doubting whence the… Whence brought his sunny bubbles e…
Knows he who tills this lonely fie… To reap its scanty corn, What mystic fruit his acres yield At midnight and at morn? In the long sunny afternoon,
That you are fair or wise is vain, Or strong, or rich, or generous; You must have also the untaught st… That sheds beauty on the rose. There is a melody born of melody,
The Sphinx is drowsy, The wings are furled; Her ear is heavy, She broods on the world. “Who’ll tell me my secret,
When I was born, From all the seas of strength Fat… Saying, This be thy portion, chil… Less than a lily’s, thou shalt dai… From my great arteries; nor less,…
The sinful painter drapes his godd… Because she still is naked, being… The godlike sculptor will not so d… Beauty, which bones and flesh enou…
Daughters of Time, the hypocritic… Muffled and dumb like barefoot der… And marching single in an endless… Bring diadems and fagots in their… To each they offer gifts after his…
If the red slayer think he slays, Or if the slain think he is slain, They know not well the subtle ways I keep, and pass, and turn again. Far or forgot to me is near;
The mountain and the squirrel Had a quarrel; And the former called the latter “… Bun replied, “You are doubtless very big;
It is time to be old, To take in sail:— The god of bounds, Who sets to seas a shore, Came to me in his fatal rounds,
Already blushes in thy cheek The bosom—thought which thou must… The bird, how far it haply roam By cloud or isle, is flying home; The maiden fears, and fearing runs
