#AmericanWriters
Half a loaf, half a loaf, Half a loaf? Urn-hum? Down through the vale of gloom Slouched the ten million, Onward th’ 'ungry blokes,
“Pan is dead. Great Pan is dead. Ah! bow your heads, ye maidens all… And weave ye him his coronal.” “There is no summer in the leaves, And withered are the sedges;
Her grave, sweet haughtiness Pleaseth me, and in like wise Her quiet ironies. Others are beautiful, none more, s… I suppose, when poetry comes down…
The jewelled steps are already qui… It is so late that the dew soaks m… And I let down the crystal curtai… And watch the moon through the cle…
The gods are dead? Perhaps they a… Living at least in Lempriere unde… The wise, the fair, the awful, the… Are one and all. I like to think,… In some still land of lilacs and t…
Why does the horse-faced lady of j… Walk down Longacre reciting Swinb… Why does the small child in the so… Crawl in the very black gutter ben… Why does the really handsome young…
“Thank you, whatever comes” And t… And, as the ray of sun on hanging… Fades when the wind hath lifted th… Went swiftly from me. Nay, whatev… One hour was sunlit and the most h…
The gilded phaloi of the crocuses are thrusting at the spring air. Here is there naught of dead gods But a procession of festival, A procession, Giulio Romano,
Lord God of heaven that with merc… Th’alternate prayer wheel of the n… Eternal hath to thee, and in whose… Our days as rain drops in the sea… As bright white drops upon a leade…
We flash across the level. We thunder thro’ the bridges. We bicker down the cuttings. We sway along the ridges. A rush of streaming hedges,
While my hair was still cut straig… I played about the front gate, pul… You came by on bamboo stilts, play… You walked about my seat, playing… And we went on living in the villa…
The Past was goodly once, and yet… The best of it we know is that it’… Dwindled and faded quite, perished… Nothing is left at last of what on… Coming back like a ghost, staring…
The narrow streets cut into the wi… Dark oxen, white horses, drag on the seven coaches with out… The coaches are perfumed wood, The jewelled chair is held up at t…
Gone while your tastes were keen t… Gone where the grey winds call to… By that high fencer, even Death, Struck of the blade that no man pa… Such is your fence, one saith,
Where forlorn sunsets flare and fa… On desolate sea and lonely sand, Out of the silence and the shade What is the voice of strange comma… Calling you still, as friend calls…