#AmericanWriters #Aphorism #Epigram
There’s little to have but the thi… There’s little to bear but the thi… There’s nothing to carry and naugh… And glory to Heaven, I paid the s… There’s little to do but I did be…
The days will rally, wreathing Their crazy tarantelle; And you must go on breathing, But I’ll be safe in hell. Like January weather,
Unseemly are the open eyes That watch the midnight sheep, That look upon the secret skies Nor close, abashed, in sleep; That see the dawn drag in, unbidde…
I met a man the other day– A kindly man, and serious– Who viewed me in a thoughtful way, And spoke me so, and spoke me thus… “Oh, dallying’s a sad mistake;
No more my little song comes back; And now of nights I lay My head on down, to watch the blac… And wait the unfailing gray. Oh, sad are winter nights, and slo…
My heart went fluttering with fear Lest you should go, and leave me h… To beat my breast and rock my head And stretch me sleepless on my bed… Ah, clear they see and true they s…
I think that I shall never know Why I am thus, and I am so. Around me, other girls inspire In men the rush and roar of fire, The sweet transparency of glass,
Lady, lady, never start Conversation toward your heart; Keep your pretty words serene; Never murmur what you mean. Show yourself, by word and look,
Ghosts of all my lovely sins, Who attend too well my pillow, Gay the wanton rain begins; Hide the limp and tearful willow. Turn aside your eyes and ears,
Lilacs blossom just as sweet Now my heart is shattered. If I bowled it down the street, Who’s to say it mattered? If there’s one that rode away
Who lay against the sea, and fled, Who lightly loved the wave, Shall never know, when he is dead, A cool and murmurous grave. But in a shallow pit shall rest
Travel, trouble, music, art, A kiss, a frock, a rhyme– I never said they feed my heart, But still they pass my time.
Chloe’s hair, no doubt, was bright… Lydia’s mouth more sweetly sad; Hebe’s arms were rather whiter; Languorous-lidded Helen had Eyes more blue than e’er the sky w…
I do not like my state of mind; I’m bitter, querulous, unkind. I hate my legs, I hate my hands, I do not yearn for lovelier lands. I dread the dawn’s recurrent light…
In youth, it was a way I had To do my best to please, And change, with every passing lad… To suit his theories. But now I know the things I know,