#AmericanWriters
Sun and wind and beat of sea, Great lands stretching endlessly’… Where be bonds to bind the free? All the world was made for me!
All day, all day I brush My golden strands of hair; All day I wait and wait.. Ah, who is there? Who calls? Who calls? The gold
I know Not these my hands And yet I think there was A woman like me once had hands Like these.
More dim than wining moon Thy face, mort faint Than is the falling wind Thy voice, yet do Thine eyes most strangely glow,
Still as On windless nights The moon-cast shadows are, So still will be my heart when I Am dead.
A-sway, On red rose, A golden butterfly. . And on my heart a butterfly Night-wing’d.
For Aubrey Beardsley’s picture Pierrot is dying: Tiptoe in, Finger touched to lip, Harlequin,
‘WHY do You thus devise Evil against her?’ ‘For that She is beautiful, delicate; Therefore.’
Meet thou the event And terrible happening of Thine end: for thou art come Upon the remote, cold place Of ultimate dissolution and
As I went, as I went Over the mountains, I heard, I heard, Through cloud-wreath and mist, A hound that was baying -
Peter stands by the gate, And Michael by the throne. ‘Peter, I would pass the gate And come before the throne.’ ‘Whose spirit prayed never at the…
No guile? Nay, but so strangely He moves among us. . Not this Man but Barabbas! Release to us Barabbas!
White doves of Cytherea, by your… Across the blue Heaven’s bluest h… And by your certain homing to Lov… Still to be true and ever true -…
Avis, the fair, at dawn Rose lightly from her bed, Herself arrayed, Avis, the fait, the maid, In vestiment of lawn;
The morning is new and the skies a… The day cometh in with the sun and… Hasten, belov’ed! For see, while you were yet sleepi… The cool and virgin feet of dawn w…