#AmericanWriters
I thought of you and how you love… And walking up the long beach all… I heard the waves breaking in meas… As you and I once heard their mon… Around me were the echoing dunes,…
WAVES are the sea’s white daught… And raindrops the children of rain… But why for my shimmering body Have I a mother like Pain? Night is the mother of stars,
It is not a word spoken, Few words are said; Nor even a look of the eyes Nor a bend of the head, But only a hush of the heart
To-night I close my eyes and see A strange procession passing me— The years before I saw your face Go by me with a wistful grace; They pass, the sensitive shy years…
This is the quiet hour; the theate… Have gathered in their crowds, and… The million lights blaze on for fe… Robbing the sky of stars that shou… A woman waits with bag and shabby…
The dearest child in all the world… Should have the dearest songs, And that is why this little book To David-Boy belongs.
As the waves of perfume, heliotrop… Float in the garden when no wind b… Come to us, go from us, whence no… So the old tunes float in my mind, And go from me leaving no trace be…
If he could know my songs are all… At silver dawn or in the evening g… Would he not smile and think it bu… If he could know? Or would his heart rejoice and ove…
Willow in your April gown Delicate and gleaming, Do you mind in years gone by All my dreaming? Spring was like a call to me
The northern woods are delicately… The lake is folded softly by the s… But I am restless for the subway’… The thunder and the hurrying of fe… I try to sleep, but still my eyeli…
Were you a Greek when all the wor… Before the weary years that pass a… Had scattered all the temples on t… Before the moss to marble columns… I think your snowy tunic must have…
Your mind and mine are such great… Have freed themselves from cautiou… And on wild clouds of thought, nak… They ride above us in extreme deli… We see them, we look up with a lon…
The world is tired, the year is ol… The little leaves are glad to die, The wind goes shivering with cold Among the rushes dry. Our love is dying like the grass,
WHEN they see my songs They will sigh and say, ‘Poor soul, wistful soul, Lonely night and day.’ They will never know
I have come the selfsame path To the selfsame door, Years have left the roses there Burning as before While I watch them in the wind