#AmericanWriters
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…
I. GOD SEND THE REGICI… Would that the lying rulers of the… Were brought to block for tyrannie… Would that the sword of Cromwell… The sword of Joshua and Gideon,
Think not that incense-smoke has h… My friends, the incense-time has b… Creed upon creed, cult upon cult s… Shrine after shrine grow gray bene… And mountain-boulders in our aged…
My lady in her white silk shawl Is like a lily dim, Within the twilight of the room Enthroned and kind and prim. My lady! Pale gold is her hair.
The moon is but a candle-glow That flickers thro’ the gloom: The starry space, a castle hall: And Earth, the children’s room, Where all night long the old trees…
Down, down beneath the daisy beds, O hear the cries of pain! And moaning on the cinder-path They’re blind amid the rain. Can murmurs of the worms arise
What is my mast? A pen. What are my sails? Ten crescent m… What is my sea? A bottle of ink. Where do I go? To heaven again. What do I eat? The amaranth flowe…
Romance was always young. You come today Just eight years old With marvellous dark hair. Younger than Dante found you
We are happy all the time Even when we fight: Sweet briars of the stairways, Gay fairies of the grime; We, who are playing to-night.…
[How different people and differen… The Old Horse in the City The moon’s a peck of corn. It lie… Heaped up for me to eat. I wish that I might climb the pat…
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…
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…
[Concerning Edgar Allan Poe]<… Who now will praise the Wizard in… With loyal songs, with humors grav… This Jingle-man, of strolling pla… Whom holy folk have hurried by in…
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…
And must the Senator from Illinoi… Be this squat thing, with blinking… This brazen gutter idol, reared to… Upon a leering pyramid of lies? And must the Senator from Illinoi…