#AmericanWriters
What have I done for you, England, my England? What is there I would not do, England, my own? With your glorious eyes austere,
This is another of our ancient lov… Pass and be silent, Rullus, for t… Hath lacked a something since this… Hath lacked a something. ’Twas bu…
A square, squat room (a cellar on… Drab to the soul, drab to the very… Plasters astray in unnatural-looki… Scissors and lint and apothecary’s… Here, on a bench a skeleton would…
FROM THE ITALIAN OF LE… Such wast thou, Who art now But buried dust and rusted skeleto… Above the bones and mire,
When you wake in your crib, You, an inch of experience - Vaulted about With the wonder of darkness; Wailing and striving
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 ha’ seen them 'mid the clouds on… Lo! they pause not for love nor fo… Yet their eyes are as the eyes of… When the white hart breaks his cov… And the white wind breaks the morn…
‘Tis but a vague, invarious deli… As gold that rains about some buri… As the fine flakes, When tourists frolicking Stamp on his roof or in the glazin…
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.
Where forlorn sunsets flare and fa… On desolate sea and lonely sand, Out of the silence and the shade What is the voice of strange comma… Calling you still, as friend calls…
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,
Come, my songs, let us express our… Let us express our envy for the ma… You are very idle, my songs, I fear you will come to a bad end. You stand about the streets, You…
His brow spreads large and placid,… Is deep and bright, with steady lo… Soft lines of tranquil thought his… His face at once benign and proud… If envy scout, if ignorance deny,
I see by the morning papers That America’s sturdy sons Have started a investigation Of the making of guns. The morning paper tells me
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,