#AmericanWriters
The sky-like limpid eyes, The circular infant’s face, The stiffness from spats to collar Never relaxing into grace; The heavy memories of Horeb, Sina…
I even I, am he who knoweth the r… Through the sky, and the wind ther… I have beheld the Lady of Life, I, even I, who fly with the swall… Green and gray is her raiment,
Though thou well dost wish me ill Audiart, Audiart, Where thy bodice laces start As ivy fingers clutching through Its crevices,
Come, my songs, let us speak of pe… We shall get ourselves rather disl… Ah yes, my songs, let us resurrect The very excellent term Rusticus. Let us apply it in all its opprobr…
There is no land like England Where banks rise day by day, There are no banks like English b… To make the people pay. There is no such land of castles
Earth’s winter cometh And I being part of all And sith the spirit of all moveth… I must needs bear earth’s winter Drawn cold and grey with hours
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 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…
‘Tis Evanoe’s, A house not made with hands, But out somewhere beyond the world… Her gold is spread, above, around,… Strange ways and walls are fashion…
Come, or the stellar tide will sli… Eastward avoid the hour of its dec… Now! for the needle trembles in my… Here we have had our vantage, the… Here we have had our day, your day…
Take, dear, my little sheaf of son… For, old or new, All that is good in them belongs Only to you; And, singing as when all was young…
The thought of what America would… If the Classics had a wide circul… Troubles my sleep, The thought of what America, The thought of what America,
O you away high there, you that lean From amber lattices upon the cobal… I am below amid the pine trees, Amid the little pine trees, hear m…
Rudyard the dud yard, Rudyard the false measure, Told 'em that glory Ain’t always a pleasure, But said it wuz glorious neverthel…
The nightingale has a lyre of gold… The lark’s is a clarion-call, And the blackbird plays but a boxw… But I love him best of all. For his song is all of the joy of…
