#AmericanWriters
The summer dawn came over-soon, The earth was like hot iron at noo… In Nazareth; There fell no rain to ease the hea… And dusk drew on with tired feet
Deep in the night the cry of a swa… Under the stars he flew, Keen as pain was his call to follo… Over the world to you. Love in my heart is a cry forever
Mary sat in the corner dreaming, Dim was the room and low, While in the dusk, the saw went sc… To and fro. Jesus and Joseph toiled together,
They never saw my lover’s face, They only know our love was brief, Wearing awhile a windy grace And passing like an autumn leaf. They wonder why I do not weep,
He said: “In the winter dusk When the pavements were gleaming w… I walked thru a dingy street Hurried, harassed,
I saw a star slide down the sky, Blinding the north as it went by, Too burning and too quick to hold, Too lovely to be bought or sold, Good only to make wishes on
One by one, like leaves from a tre… All my faiths have forsaken me; But the stars above my head Burn in white and delicate red, And beneath my feet the earth
A wind is blowing over my soul, I hear it cry the whole night thro… Is there no peace for me on earth Except with you? Alas, the wind has made me wise,
I MADE you many and many a song, Yet never one told all you are’ It was as though a net of words Were flung to catch a star; It was as though I curved my hand
I came to the crowded Inn of Eart… And called for a cup of wine, But the Host went by with averted… From a thirst as keen as mine. Then I sat down with weariness
I was a queen, and I have lost my… A wife, and I have broken all my… A lover, and I ruined him I loved… There is no other havoc left to do… A little month ago I was a queen,
“Four winds blowing thro’ the sky, You have seen poor maidens die, Tell me then what I shall do That my lover may be true.” Said the wind from out the south,
Was that his step that sounded on… Was that his knock I heard upon t… I grow so tired I almost cease to… And yet I would that he might com… It was the wind I heard, that moc…
Lyric night of the lingering Indi… Shadowy fields that are scentless… Never a bird, but the passionless… Ceaseless, insistent. The grasshopper’s horn, and far of…
My heart is but a little house With room for only three or four, And it was filled before you knock… Upon the door. I longed to bid you come within,