#AmericanWriters
Part I.A Short Walk Along the C… Yes, I have walked in California, And the rivers there are blue and… Thunderclouds of grapes hang on th… Bears in the meadows pitch and fig…
Are these your presences, my clan… Are these your hands upon my wound… Mine own, mine own, blood of my bl… Fly by my path till you have made…
[Written for a picture] The Youth speaks:—: “Why do you seek the sun In your bubble-crown ascending? Your chariot will melt to mist.
Awake again in Asia, Lord of Pea… Awake and preach, for her far swor… And would they sheathe the sword b… Or scorn your way, while looking i… Good comrade and philosopher and p…
In a nation of one hundred fine, m… There are plenty of sweeping, swin… And knock your old blue devils out… I brag and chant of Bryan, Bryan,… Candidate for president who sketch…
The moon’s a steaming chalice, Of honey and venom-wine. A little of it sipped by night Makes the long hours divine. But oh, my reckless lovers,
Ah, she was music in herself, A symphony of joyousness. She sang, she sang from finger tip… From every tremble of her dress. I saw sweet haunting harmony,
Would I might wake St. Francis i… Brother of birds and trees, God’s… Blinded with weeping for the sad a… Our wealth undone, all strict Fra… Come, let us chant the canticle ag…
Hungry for music with a desperate… I prowled abroad, I threaded thro… The evening crowd was clamoring an… Vulgar and pitiful—my heart bowed… Till I remembered duller hours ma…
He coveted her portrait. He toiled as she grew gay. She loved to see him labor In that devoted way. And in the end it pleased her,
(A Poem Game.) “And when the Queen of Sheba hear… [The men’s leader rises as he sees… Men’s Leader: The Queen of Sh… [He bows three times.]
Your pen needs but a ruffle To be Pavlova whirling. It surely is a scalawag A-scamping down the page. A pretty little May-wind
Written to Miss Alice L. F.… Your fine white hand is Heaven’s… To cure the wide world, stricken s… Bleeding at the breast and head, Tearing at its wounds once more.
Ah, in the night, all music haunts… Is it for naught high Heaven crac… And the tremendous Amaranth desce… Sweet with the glory of ten thousa… Does it not mean my God would hav…
THE Drunkards in the street are… one another, Heeding not the night-wind, great… gay,— Publicans and wantons—