#AmericanWriters
Be in me as the eternal moods of the bleak wind, and’not As transient things are gaiety of flowers. Have me in the strong loneliness
Beautiful, tragical faces’ Ye that were whole, and are so sun… And, O ye vile, ye that might hav… That are so sodden and drunken, Who hath forgotten you?
Be in me as the eternal moods of the bleak wind, and not As transient things are’ gaiety of flowers. Have me in the strong loneliness
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…
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
Let us deride the smugness of 'Th… So much for the gagged reviewers, It will pay them when the worms ar… vitals; These are they who objected to new…
(1907) 1 am homesick after mine own kind, Oh I know that there are folk abo… But I am homesick after mine own… ‘These sell our pictures’! Oh wel…
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…
An image of Lethe, and the fields Full of faint light but golden, Gray cliffs,
O thou newcomer who seek’st Rom… And find’st in Rome no thing th… Arches worn old and palaces made c… Rome’s name alone within these w… Behold how pride and ruin can befa…
O woe, woe, People are born and die, We also shall be dead pretty soon Therefore let us act as if we were dead already.
Will people accept them? (i.e. these songs). As a timorous wench from a centaur (or a centurion), Already they flee, howling in terr…
I sat on the Dogana’s steps For the gondolas cost too much, th… And there were not “those girls”,… And the Buccentoro twenty yards o… And the lit cross—beams, that year…
Lo, how it gleams and glistens in… Like the cheek of a Chesterton.
The West a glimmering lake of lig… A dream of pearly weather, The first of stars is burning whit… The star we watch together. Is April dead? The unresting year
