#Americans #Women
The garden’s full of scented wallf… And, save that these stir faintly,… Only a distant bell in hollow chim… Cried out just now for far-forgote… And three reverberate words the gr…
My locks are shorn for sorrow Of love which may not be; Tomorrow and tomorrow Are plotting cruelty. The winter wind tangles
I saw a Tiger’s golden flank, I saw what food he ate, By a desert spring he drank; The Tiger’s name was Hate. Then I saw a placid Lamb
Let us quarrel for these reasons: You detest the salt which seasons My speech . . . and all my lights… In the cold poison of your doubt. I love Shelley . . . you love Kea…
Now let no charitable hope Confuse my mind with images Of eagle and of antelope: I am by nature none of these. I was, being human, born alone;
If we must cheat ourselves with an… Then let it be a dream of noblenes… Since it is necessary to express Gall from black grapes—to sew an e… With a rusty needle—chase a spurio…
The woman in the pointed hood And cloak blue-gray like a pigeon’… Whose orchard climbs to the balsam… Has done a cruel thing. To her back door-step came a ghost…
The rain’s cold grains are silver-… Sharp as golden sands, A bell is clanging, people sway Hanging by their hands. Supple hands, or gnarled and stiff…
You are a rose, but set with sharp… You are a pretty bird that pecks a… You are a little squirrel on a tre… Pelting me with the prickly fruit… A diamond, torn from a crystal min…
Allegra, rising from her canopied… Slides both white feet across the… Which lace the peacock jalousies:… An idol of fine clay, with feet of…
BARCAROLE ON THE STYX<… Fair youth with the rose at your l… A riddle is hid in your eyes; Discard conversational quips, Give over elaborate disguise.
Man, the egregious egoist (In mystery the twig is bent) Imagines, by some mental twist, That he alone is sentient Of the intolerable load
When against earth a wooden heel Clicks as loud as stone on steel, When stone turns flour instead of… And frost bakes clay as fire bakes… When the hard-bitten fields at las…
The Hielan’ lassies are a’ for sp… The Lowlan’ lassies for prinkin’… My daddie w’u’d chide me, an’ so w… If I s’u’d bring hame sic a prink… Now haud your tongue, ye haverin’…
The old moon is tarnished With smoke of the flood, The dead leaves are varnished With colour like blood. A treacherous smiler