#AmericanWriters
Now while my lips are living Their words must stay unsaid, And will my soul remember To speak when I am dead? Yet if my soul remembered
Buildings above the leafless trees Loom high as castles in a dream, While one by one the lamps come ou… To thread the twilight with a glea… There is no sign of leaf or bud,
I made a hundred little songs That told the joy and pain of love… And sang them blithely, tho’ I kn… No whit thereof. I was a weaver deaf and blind;
No one worth possessing Can be quite possessed; Lay that on your heart, My young angry dear; This truth, this hard and precious…
In the spring I asked the daisies If his words were true, And the clever, clear-eyed daisies Always knew. Now the fields are brown and barre…
When the long day goes by And I do not see your face, The old wild, restless sorrow Steals from its hiding place. My day is barren and broken,
I cannot die, who drank delight From the cup of the crescent moon, And hungrily as men eat bread, Loved the scented nights of June. The rest may die—but is there not
My soul is a dark ploughed field In the cold rain; My soul is a broken field Ploughed by pain. Where grass and bending flowers
I am a cloud in the heaven’s heigh… The stars are lit for my delight, Tireless and changeful, swift and… I cast my shadow on hill and sea— But why do the pines on the mounta…
Your mind and mine are such great… Have freed themselves from cautiou… And on wild clouds of thought, nak… They ride above us in extreme deli… We see them, we look up with a lon…
I think the moon is very kind To take such trouble just for me. He came along with me from home To keep me company. He went as fast as I could run;
REDBIRDS, redbirds, Long and long ago, What a honey-call you had In hills I used to know; Redbud, buckberry,
I cannot heed the words they say, The lights grow far away and dim, Amid the laughing men and maids My eyes unbidden seek for him. I hope that when he smiles at me
Less than the cloud to the wind, Less than the foam to the sea, Less than the rose to the storm, Am I to thee. More than the star to the night,
It is not a word spoken, Few words are said; Nor even a look of the eyes Nor a bend of the head, But only a hush of the heart