#AmericanWriters
The long night through and still a… Estranged from eyes that very wear… Makes blind to dawn.
Grey gaolers are my griefs That will not let me free; The bitterness of tears Is warder unto me. I may not leap or run;
Meet thou the event And terrible happening of Thine end: for thou art come Upon the remote, cold place Of ultimate dissolution and
These be three silent things: The falling snow . . . the hour Before the dawn . . . the mouth of… Just dead.
Burdock, Blue aconite, And thistle and thorn. .of these Singing I wreathe my pretty wreat… O’death.
The cold With steely clutch Grips all the land. .alack The little people in the hills Will die!
JUST now, Out of the strange Still dusk . . . as strange, as st… A white moth flew . . . Why am I… So cold?
The shadowy boy of night Crosses the dusking land; He sows his poppy-seeds With steady, gentle hand. The shadowy boy of night
Seen on a night in November How frail Above the bulk Of crashing water hangs, Autumn, evanescent, wan,
To Walter Savage Landor Ah, Walter, where you lived I rue These days come all too late for m… What matter if her eyes were blue Whose rival is Persephone?
Little my lacking fortunes show For this to eat and that to wear; Yet laughing, Soul, and gaily go! An obol pays the Stygian fare. London, 1910
Is it as plainly in our living sho… By slant and twist, which way the…
The sun is warm today, O Romulus, and on Thine older Palentine the birds Still sing.
Wouldst thou find my ashes? Look In the pages of my book; And as these thy hand doth turn, Know here is my funeral urn.
If it Were lighter touch Than petal of flower resting On grass, oh still too heavy it we… Too heavy!