#AmericanWriters
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…
Once upon a time I heard That the flying moon was a Phoeni… Thus she sails through windy skies… Thus in the willow’s arms she lies… Turn to the East or turn to the W…
The headlights raced; the moon, de… Stared down on that golden river. I saw through the smoke the scarle… Of a boy who could not shiver. His father’s hand forced him to st…
Why should this Negro insolently… Down the red noonday on such noise… Piled in his barrow, tawnier than… Lie heaps of smouldering daisies,… Their copper petals shriveled up w…
As I was lying in my bed I heard the church-bell ring; Before one solemn word was said A bird began to sing. I heard a dog begin to bark
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…
Say not of beauty she is good, Or aught but beautiful, Or sleek to doves’ wings of the wo… Her wild wings of a gull. Call her not wicked; that word’s t…
The old moon is tarnished With smoke of the flood, The dead leaves are varnished With colour like blood. A treacherous smiler
Better to see your cheek grown hol… Better to see your temple worn, Than to forget to follow, follow, After the sound of a silver horn. Better to bind your brow with will…
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…
This is the bricklayer; hear the t… Of his heavy load dumped down on s… His lustrous bricks are brighter t… His smoking mortar whiter than bon… Set each sharp-edged, fire-bitten…
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.
Beauty has a tarnished dress, And a patchwork cloak of cloth Dipped deep in mournfulness, Striped like a moth. Wet grass where it trails
It is not heaven: bitter seed Leavens its entrails with despair It is a star where dragons breed: Devils have a footing there. The sky has bent it out of shape;
My locks are shorn for sorrow Of love which may not be; Tomorrow and tomorrow Are plotting cruelty. The winter wind tangles