#AmericanWriters
We find your soft Utopias as whit… As new-cut bread, and dull as life… O, scribes who dare forget how wil… How human breasts adore alarum bel… You house us in a hive of prigs an…
St. Francis, Buddha, Tolstoi, an… Friends, if you four, as pilgrims,… Returned, the hate of earth once m… And walked upon the water and the… If you, with words celestial, stop…
The North Star whispers: “You ar… Of those whose course no chance ca… You blunder, but are not undone, Your spirit-task is fixed and stra… ”When here you walk, a bloodless s…
(IN THE BEGINNING) The sun is a huntress young, The sun is a red, red joy, The sun is an indian girl, Of the tribe of the Illinois.
I look on the specious electrical… Blatant, mechanical, crawling and… Wickedly red or malignantly green Like the beads of a young Senegam… Showing, while millions of souls h…
“Yes,” said the sister with the li… The busy little sister with the fu… “This is the climax, the grand fif… There rides the proud, at the fini… There goes the hearse, the mourner…
I saw wild domes and bowers And smoking incense towers And mad exotic flowers In Illinois. Where ragged ditches ran
I hate this yoke; for the world’s… Knowing 'twill weigh as much on yo… Knowing you love your freedom dear… Knowing that love unchained has be… Our one great wine (yet spent too…
Two statesmen met by moonlight. Their ease was partly feigned. They glanced about the prairie. Their faces were constrained. In various ways aforetime
(A Poem Game.) The King of Yellow Butterflies, The King of Yellow Butterflies, The King of Yellow Butterflies, Now orders forth his men.
(To a Man who maintained that… I would be one with the dark, dark… Follow the plough with a yokel tre… I would be part of the Indian cor… Walking the rows with the plumes o…
(The poem shows the Master, wi… I heard Immanuel singing Within his own good lands, I saw him bend above his harp. I watched his wandering hands
(Written with the hope that the… Here’s to the mice that scare the… Creeping into their cages. Here’s to the fairy mice that bite The elephants fat and wise:
The moon’s a gong, hung in the wil… Whose song the fays hold dear. Of course you do not hear it, chil… It takes a FAIRY ear. The full moon is a splendid gong
This is the song The spice-tree sings: “Hunger and fire, Hunger and fire, Sky-born Beauty—