Epigraph to Lustra
#AmericanWriters
How many will come after me singing as well as I sing, none be… Telling the heart of their truth as I have taught them to tell it; Fruit of my seed,
Let us deride the smugness of 'Th… So much for the gagged reviewers, It will pay them when the worms ar… vitals; These are they who objected to new…
Come my cantilations, Let us dump our hatreds into one b… Hot sun, clear water, fresh wind, Let me be free of pavements, Let me be free of the printers.
The baby new to earth and sky Has never until now Unto himself the question put Or asked us if the cow Is higher in the mental scale
At Rochecoart, Where the hills part in three ways, And three valleys, full of winding… Fork out to south and north,
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.
The narrow streets cut into the wi… Dark oxen, white horses, drag on the seven coaches with out… The coaches are perfumed wood, The jewelled chair is held up at t…
You were praised, my books, because I had just come from the c… I was twenty years behind the time… so you found an audience ready. I do not disown you,
The black panther treads at my sid… And above my fingers There float the petal-like flames. The milk-white girls Unbend from the holly-trees,
Will people accept them? (i.e. these songs). As a timorous wench from a centaur (or a centurion), Already they flee, howling in terr…
I have tried to write Paradise Do not move Let the wind speak that is paradise. Let the Gods forgive what I
Earth’s winter cometh And I being part of all And sith the spirit of all moveth… I must needs bear earth’s winter Drawn cold and grey with hours
‘Tis Evanoe’s, A house not made with hands, But out somewhere beyond the world… Her gold is spread, above, around,… Strange ways and walls are fashion…
Phyllidula and the Spoils of Gouv… Where, Lady, are the days When you could go out in a hired h… Without footmen and equipments? And dine in a soggy, cheap restaur…
To me at my fifth-floor window The chimney-pots in rows Are sets of pipes pandean For every wind that blows; And the smoke that whirls and eddi…