#AmericanWriters
How long shall I tarnish the mirr… A spatter of rust on its polished… The seasons reel Like a goaded wheel. Half-numb, half-maddened, my days…
The vine leaves against the brick… Are rusty and broken. Dead leaves gather under the pine-… The brittle boughs of lilac-bushes Sweep against the stars.
“Hullo, Alice!” “Hullo, Leon!” “Say, Alice, gi’ me a couple O’ them two for five cigars, Will yer?”
Frindsbury, Kent, 1786 Bang! Bang! Tap! Tap-a-tap! Rap!
When I looked into your eyes, I saw a garden With peonies, and tinkling pagodas… And round-arched bridges Over still lakes.
Frau Concert-Meister Altgelt shu… A storm was rising, heavy gusts of… Swirled through the trees, and sca… Her on the clean, flagged path. T… The distant town was black, and sh…
My heart is tuned to sorrow, and t… Vibrate most readily to minor chor… Searching and sad; my mind is stuf… Which voice the passion and the ac… Illusions beating with their baffl…
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…
Swirl of crowded streets. Shock a… brick facade of an old church, aga… lurch and withdraw. Flare of sunsh… in the windows of chemists’ shops,… darting colours far into the crowd…
It was a gusty night, With the wind booming, and swoopin… Looping round corners, Sliding over the cobble-stones, Whipping and veering,
I ask but one thing of you, only o… That always you will be my dream o… That never shall I wake to find u… All this I have believed and rest… Forever vanished, like a vision go…
Why do you subdue yourself in gold… Why do you dim yourself with folde… Do you not see that I can buy bro… And that I am choked in the twili… How pale you would be, and startli…
Now what in the name of the sun an… Is the meaning of this most unholy… Do men find life so full of humour… That for want of excitement they s… Fifteen millions of soldiers with…
A near horizon whose sharp jags Cut brutally into a sky Of leaden heaviness, and crags Of houses lift their masonry Ugly and foul, and chimneys lie
Spread on the roadway, With open-blown jackets, Like black, soaring pinions, They swoop down the hillside, The Cyclists.
