#AmericanWriters
Simon Zelotes speaketh it somewhi… Ha’ we lost the goodliest fere o’… For the priests and the gallows tr… Aye lover he was of brawny men, O’ ships and the open sea.
The ways of Death are soothing an… And all the words of Death are gr… From camp and church, the fireside… She beckons forth– and strife and… A summer night descending cool and…
Heaven’s worry, scurries to earth; twisted planning, what’s to block… At sight of good plan, they turn t… the sight of their planning gives me a pain.
A Hymn to the Dope Goddess of the murmuring courts, Nicotine, my Nicotine, Houri of the mystic sports, trailing—robed in gabardine,
Winter is icummen in, Lhude sing Goddamm. Raineth drop and staineth slop, And how the wind doth ramm! Sing: Goddamm.
By the North Gate, the wind blows… Lonely from the beginning of time… Trees fall, the grass goes yellow… I climb the towers and towers to watch out the barbarous land:
What have I done for you, England, my England? What is there I would not do, England, my own? With your glorious eyes austere,
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,
Even in my dreams you have denied… And sent me only your handmaids.
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,
No man hath dared to write this th… And yet I know, how that the soul… At times pass athrough us, And we are melted into them, and a… Save reflexions of their souls.
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…
When the wind storms by with a sho… Rejoice in the tramp and the roar… Then, then, it comes home to the h… Is the passion that burns the bloo… Till you pity the dead down there…
Some may have blamed us that we ce… Of things we spoke of in our verse… Saying: a lovely voice is such as… Saying: that lady’s eyes were sad… Wherein the world’s whole joy is b…
Staring corpselike at the ceiling, See his harsh, unrazored features, Ghastly brown against the pillow, And his throat-so strangely bandag… Lack of work and lack of victuals,