#Americans #XXCentury
No, no! Go from me. I have left h… I will not spoil my sheath with le… For my surrounding air hath a new… Slight are her arms, yet they have… And left me cloaked as with a gauz…
For three years, out of key with h… He strove to resuscitate the dead… Of poetry; to maintain “the sublim… In the old scene.Wrong from the s… No, hardly, but seeing he had been…
The Dai horse neighs against the… The birds of Etsu have no love fo… Emotion is born out of habit. Yesterday we went out of the Wild… To-day from the Dragon-Pen.
O my fellow sufferers, songs of my… A lot of asses praise you because… We, you, I! We are 'Red Bloods’! Imagine it, my fellow sufferers Our maleness lifts us out of the r…
WIND Scarce and thin, scarce and thin The government’s excuse, Never at all will they do Aught of the slightest use.
“Tout aux tavernes et aux filles.” Suppose you screeve? or go cheap-j… Or fake the broads? or fig a nag? Or thimble-rig? or knap a yack? Or pitch a snide? or smash a rag?
In vain have I striven, to teach my heart to bow; In vain have I said to him ‘There be many singers greater tha… But his answer cometh, as winds an…
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…
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.
The petals fall in the fountain, the orange-coloured rose-leaves, Their ochre clings to the stone.
Though thou well dost wish me ill Audiart, Audiart, Where thy bodice laces start As ivy fingers clutching through Its crevices,
The black panther lies under his r… And the fawns come to sniff at his… Evoe, Evoe, Evoe Baccho, O ZAGREUS, Zagreus, Zagreus, The black panther lies under his r…
Her grave, sweet haughtiness Pleaseth me, and in like wise Her quiet ironies. Others are beautiful, none more, s… I suppose, when poetry comes down…
When I but think upon the great d… And turn my mind upon that splendi… Lo! I do curse my strength And blame the sun his gladness; For that the one is dead
I am a grave poetic hen That lays poetic eggs And to enhance my temperament A little quiet begs. We make the yolk philosophy,