#AmericanWriters
The Archbishop, whom God loved in… Beheld his wounds all bleeding fre… And then his cheek more ghastly gr… And a faint shudder through his me… Upon the battle-field his knee was…
A handful of red sand, from the ho… Of Arab deserts brought, Within this glass becomes the spy… The minister of Thought. How many weary centuries has it be…
‘E venni dal martirio a questa pac… These words the poet heard in Par… Uttered by one who, bravely dying… In the true faith was living in th… Where the celestial cross of sacri…
‘Yes, well your story pleads the c… Of those dumb mouths that have no… Only a cry from each to each In its own kind, with its own laws… Something that is beyond the reach
Soon as the story reached its end, One, over eager to commend, Crowned it with injudicious praise… And then the voice of blame found… And fanned the embers of dissent
“Speak! speak! thou fearful guest! Who, with thy hollow breast Still in rude armor drest, Comest to daunt me! Wrapt not in Eastern balms,
I stand again on the familiar shor… And hear the waves of the distract… Piteously calling and lamenting th… And waiting restless at thy cottag… The rocks, the sea—weed on the oce…
I stood upon the hills, when heave… Was glorious with the sun’s return… And woods were brightened, and sof… Went forth to kiss the sun—clad va… The clouds were far beneath me; ba…
Tuscan, that wanderest through the… With thoughtful pace, and sad, maj… Stern thoughts and awful from thy… Like Farinata from his fiery tomb… Thy sacred song is like the trump…
Let him who will, by force or frau… Of courtly grandeurs gain the slip… I, leaving not the home of my deli… Far from the world and noise will… Then, without pomps or perils of t…
Hence away, begone, begone, Carking care and melancholy! Think ye thus to govern me All my life long, as ye have done? That shall ye not, I promise ye;
THE WORKSHOP OF HEPHAES… HEPHAESTUS (standing before t… Not fashioned out of gold, like H… Nor forged of iron like the thunde… Of Zeus omnipotent, or other work…
Love, love, what wilt thou with th… Naught see I fixed or sure in the… I do not know thee,—nor what deeds… Love, love, what wilt thou with th… Naught see I fixed or sure in the…
Labor with what zeal we will, Something still remains undone, Something uncompleted still Waits the rising of the sun. By the bedside, on the stair,
It is autumn; not without But within me is the cold. Youth and spring are all about; It is I that have grown old. Birds are darting through the air,