#AmericanWriters
When I was born, From all the seas of strength Fat… Saying, This be thy portion, chil… Less than a lily’s, thou shalt dai… From my great arteries; nor less,…
Was never form and never face So sweet to SEYD as only grace Which did not slumber like a stone… But hovered gleaming and was gone. Beauty chased he everywhere,
Higher far, Upward, into the pure realm, Over sun or star, Over the flickering Dæmon film, Thou must mount for love,—
Winters know Easily to shed the snow, And the untaught Spring is wise In cowslips and anemones. Nature, hating art and pains,
The lords of life, the lords of li… I saw them pass, In their own guise, Like and unlike, Portly and grim,—
Good Heart, that ownest all! I ask a modest boon and small: Not of lands and towns the gift,— Too large a load for me to lift,— But for one proper creature,
Think me not unkind and rude, That I walk alone in grove and gl… I go to the god of the wood To fetch his word to men. Tax not my sloth that I
Parks and ponds are good by day; I do not delight In black acres of the night, Nor my unseasoned step disturbs The sleeps of trees or dreams of h…
Who knows this or that? Hark in the wall to the rat: Since the world was, he has gnawed… Of his wisdom, of his fraud What dost thou know?
Long I followed happy guides,— I could never reach their sides. Their step is forth, and, ere the… Breaks up their leaguer, and away. Keen my sense, my heart was young,
By the rude bridge that arched the… Their flag to April’s breeze unfu… Here once the embattled farmers st… And fired the shot heard round the… The foe long since in silence slep…
The sun goes down, and with him ta… The coarseness of my por attire; The fair moon mounts, and aye the… Of Gypsy beauty blazes higher. Pale Northern girls! you scorn ou…
I mourn upon this battle—field, But not for those who perished her… Behold the river—bank Whither the angry farmers came, In sloven dress and broken rank,
Ruby wine is drunk by knaves, Sugar spends to fatten slaves, Rose and vine—leaf deck buffoons; Thunder—clouds are Jove’s festoon… Drooping oft in wreaths of dread,
I like the church; I like a cowl; I love a prophet of the soul; And on my heart monastic aisles Fall like sweet strains, or pensiv… Yet not for all his faith can see