#AmericanWriters
I ha’ seen them 'mid the clouds on… Lo! they pause not for love nor fo… Yet their eyes are as the eyes of… When the white hart breaks his cov… And the white wind breaks the morn…
This man knew out the secret ways… No man could paint such things who… And now she’s gone, who was his C… And you are here, who are ‘The Is… And here’s the thing that lasts th…
Why, my heart, do we love her so? (Geraldine, Geraldine!) Why does the great sea ebb and flo… Why does the round world spin? Geraldine, Geraldine,
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…
FROM THE PROVENCAL O… Lady, since you care nothing for m… And since you have shut me away fr… Causelessly, I know not wnere to go seeking,
We are the Choice of the Will: G… That called us into line, set in o… Set us a sword to wield none else… And bade us forth to the sound of… East and west and north, wherever…
Italian Campagna 1309, the open r… Bah! I have sung women in three c… But it is all the same; And I will sing of the sun. Lips, words, and you snare them,
When I behold how black, immortal… Drips from my deathless pen —ah, w… Why should we stop at all for what… There is enough in what I chance… It is enough that we once came tog…
We shall surely die: Must we needs grow old? Grow old and cold, And we know not why? O, the By-and-By,
You played and sang a snatch of so… A song that all-too well we knew; But whither had flown the ancient… And was it really I and you? O, since the end of life’s to live
Golden rose the house, in the port… thee, a marvel, carven in subtle s… portent. Life died down in the lam… caught at the wonder. Crimson, frosty with dew, the rose…
Rest me with Chinese colours, For I think the glass is evil. The wind moves above the wheat– With a silver crashing, A thin war of metal.
If all the grief and woe and bitte… All dolour, ill and every evil cha… That ever came upon this grieving… Were set together they would seem… Against the death of the young En…
Vex not thou the banker’s mind (His what?) with a show of sense, Vex it not, Willie, his mind, Or pierce its pretence On the supposition that it ever
“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;
