#AmericanWriters
The immemorial grief of all years Burdes my heart sorely, and the ye… Of slow eternal crying stain my ch… Forever and forever my soul speaks Saying: I am thy self: Look on me…
Three grey women walk with me Fate and Grief and Memory. My fate brought grief; my grief mu… With me through Eternity, Such thy power, memory.
As I went, as I went Over the mountains, I heard, I heard, Through cloud-wreath and mist, A hound that was baying -
More dim than wining moon Thy face, mort faint Than is the falling wind Thy voice, yet do Thine eyes most strangely glow,
Not spring’s Thou art, but hers, Most cool, most virginal, Winter’s, with thy faint breath, t… Rose-tinged.
‘Boy, lying Where the long grass Edges the pool’s brim, What do you watch There in the water? The blue
In a cave born (Mary said) In a cave is My Son buried
Scarlet the poppies Blue the corn-flowers, Golden the wheat. Gold for the Eternal: Blue for Our Lady:
Pain ebbs, And like cool balm, An opiate weariness Settles on eye-lids, on relaxed Pale wrists.
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
Nor stars . . the dark . . and in The dark the grey Ghost glimmer of the olive trees The black straight rows Of Cypresses.
Seen on a night in November How frail Above the bulk Of crashing water hangs, Autumn, evanescent, wan,
I know Not these my hands And yet I think there was A woman like me once had hands Like these.
For Aubrey Beardsley’s picture Pierrot is dying: Tiptoe in, Finger touched to lip, Harlequin,
Hear thou my lamentation, Eros, Aphrodite’s son! My heart is broken and my days are… Where the woods are dark and the s… Eros!