#AmericanWriters
The bashful Arides Has married an ugly wife, He was bored with his manner of li… Indifferent and discouraged he tho… Well do this as anything else.
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…
I had been seen in the shade, recu… The water dripping from Belleroph… Alba, your kings, and the realm yo… have constructed with such industr… Shall be yawned out on my lyre wit…
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;
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…
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.
Half a loaf, half a loaf, Half a loaf? Urn-hum? Down through the vale of gloom Slouched the ten million, Onward th’ 'ungry blokes,
Sing we for love and idleness, Naught else is worth the having. Though I have been in many a land… There is naught else in living. And I would rather have my sweet,
For a moment she rested against me Like a swallow half blown to the w… And they talk of Swinburne’s wome… And the shepherdess meeting with… And the harlots of Baudelaire.
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,
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,
I join these words for four people… Some others may overhear them, O world, I am sorry for you, You do not know these four people.
O My songs, Why do you look so eagerly and so… people’s faces, Will you find your lost dead among…
I can not bow to woo thee With honey words and flower kisses And the dew of sweet half—truths Fallen on the grass of old quaint… Of broidered days foredone.
The skies are strown with stars, The streets are fresh with dew A thin moon drifts to westward, The night is hushed and cheerful. My thought is quick with you.