#AmericanWriters
“So . . .” they said, With their wine-glasses delicately… Mocking at the thing they cannot u… “So . . .” they said again, Amused and insolent.
The Poet took his walking-stick Of fine and polished ebony. Set in the close-grained wood Were quaint devices; Patterns in ambers,
This little bowl is like a mossy p… In a Spring wood, where dogtooth… Nodding in chequered sunshine of t… A quiet place, still, with the sou… Where, though unseen, is heard the…
As one who sails upon a wide, blue… Far out of sight of land, his mind… Upon the sailing of his little boa… On tightening ropes and shaping fa… Hears suddenly, across the restles…
Dear Bessie, would my tired rhyme Had force to rise from apathy, And shaking off its lethargy Ring word-tones like a Christmas… But in my soul’s high belfry, chil…
A little garden on a bleak hillsid… Where deep the heavy, dazzling mou… Lies far into the spring. The sun… Is scarcely able to melt patches w… About the single rose bush. All d…
Beneath this sod lie the remains Of one who died of growing pains.
The throats of the little red trum… And the clangour of brass beats ag… They bray and blare at the burning… Red! Red! Coarse notes of red, Trumpeted at the blue sky.
A flickering glimmer through a win… A dim red glare through mud bespat… Cleaving a path between blown wall… Across uneven pavements sunk in sl… To scatter and then quench itself…
Between us leapt a gold and scarle… Into the hollow of the cupped, arc… Of Heaven it rose. Its flickering… And vanished in the sunshine. How… We guessed not, nor what thing cou…
From out the dragging vastness of… Wave-fettered, bound in sinuous, s… He toils toward the rounding beach… One moment, white and dripping, si… Cut like a cameo in lazuli,
The Bell in the convent tower swu… High overhead the great sun hung, A navel for the curving sky. The air was a blue clarity. Swallows flew,
Dearest, forgive that with my clum… I broke and bruised your rose. I hardly could suppose It were a thing so fragile that my… Could kill it, thus.
Paul Jannes was working very late… For this watch must be done by eig… To-morrow or the Cardinal Would certainly be vexed. Of all His customers the old prelate
A bullet through his heart at dawn. On the table a letter signed with a woman’s name. A wind that goes howling round the house, and weeping as in shame. Cold November dawn peeping throu...