#Americans #XXCentury
These tales of old disguisings, ar… Strange myths of souls that found… Unwonted folk that spake an hostil… Some soul from all the rest who’d… The star—span acres of a former lo…
Even in my dreams you have denied… You have sent me only your handmai…
Erinna is a model parent, Her children have never discovered… Lalage is also a model parent, Her offspring are fat and happy.
Lady of rich allure, Queen of the spring’s embrace, Your arms are long like boughs of… Mid laugh—broken streams, spirit o… Breath of the poppy flower,
O God, O Venus, O Mercury, patr… Give me in due time, I beseech yo… With the little bright boxes piled up neatly upon the shelves And the loose fragrant cavendish
When earth’s last thesis is copied From the theses that went before, When idea from fact has departed And bare—boned factlets shall bore… When all joy shall have fled from…
The light became her grace and dwe… Blind eyes and shadows that are fo… Lo, how the light doth melt us int… The broken sunlight for a healm sh… Who hath my heart in jurisdiction.
The petals fall in the fountain, the orange-coloured rose-leaves, Their ochre clings to the stone.
O strange face there in the glass! O ribald company, O saintly host, O sorrow-swept my fool, What answer? O ye myriad That strive? and play and pass,
The family position was waning, And on this account the little Au… Who had laughed on eighteen summer… Now bears the palsied contact of…
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
Gladstone was still respected, When John Ruskin produced ‘King’s Treasuries’; Swinburne And Rossetti still abused. Foetid Buchanan lifted up his voi…
For I was a gaunt, grave councill… Being in all things wise, and very… But I have put aside this folly a… That old age weareth for a cloak. I was quite strong—at least they s…
So-shu dreamed, And having dreamed that he was a b… He was uncertain why he should try… Hence his contentment.
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,