#AmericanWriters
For the seven lakes, and by no man… Rain; empty river; a voyage, Fire from frozen cloud, heavy rain… Under the cabin roof was one lante… The reeds are heavy; bent;
All the while they were talking th… Her eyes explored me. And when I rose to go Her fingers were like the tissue Of a Japanese paper napkin.
Will people accept them? (i.e. these songs). As a timorous wench from a centaur (or a centurion), Already they flee, howling in terr…
The shadow of Dawn; Stillness and stars and over-maste… Of Life and Death and Sleep; Heard over gleaming flats, the old… Of the old, unchanging Sea.
The twisted rhombs ceased their cl… The scorched laurel lay in the fir… The moon still declined to descend… But the black ominous owl hoot was… And one raft bears our fates
Your heart has trembled to my tong… Your hands in mine have lain, Your thought to me has leaned and… Again and yet again, My dear,
At the table beyond us With her little suede slippers off… With her white-stocking’d feet Carefully kept from the floor by a… She converses:
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:
THE NEO-COMMUNE Manhood of England, Dougth of the Shires, Want Russia to save ‘em And answer their prayers.
Good God! They say you are risqué… O canzonetti! We who went out into the four A.… Composing our albas, We who shook off our dew with the…
“Lappo I leave behind and Dante t… Lo, I would sail the seas with th… Talk me no love talk, no bought-ch… Mine is the ship and thine the mer… All the blind earth knows not th’e…
Chiming a dream by the way With ocean’s rapture and roar, I met a maiden to-day Walking alone on the shore: Walking in maiden wise,
Blue, blue is the grass about the… And the willows have overfilled th… And within, the mistress, in the m… White, white of face, hesitates, p… Slender, she puts forth a slender…
There is a wheel inside my head Of wantonness and wine, An old, cracked fiddle is begging… But the wind with scents of the se… And the sun seems glad to shine.
I am a grave poetic hen That lays poetic eggs And to enhance my temperament A little quiet begs. We make the yolk philosophy,