#AmericanWriters
It will not change now After so many years; Life has not broken it With parting or tears; Death will not alter it,
The moon is a charring ember Dying into the dark; Off in the crouching mountains Coyotes bark. The stars are heavy in heaven,
WE will never walk again As we used to walk at night, Watching our shadows lengthen Under the gold street-light When the snow was new and white.
My heart has grown rich with the p… I have less need now than when I… To share myself with every comer Or shape my thoughts into words wi… It is one to me that they come or…
The princess has her lovers, A score of knights has she, And each can sing a madrigal, And praise her gracefully. But Love that is so bitter
(The daughter of Sappho) When the dusk was wet with dew, Cleïs, did the muses nine Listen in a silent line While your mother sang to you?
As kings, seeing their lives about… Take off the heavy ermine and the… So had the trees that autumn-time… Their golden garments on the dying… When I, who watched the seasons i…
The beast to the beast is calling, And the soul bends down to wait; Like the stealthy lord of the jung… The white man calls his mate. The beast to the beast is calling,
Love in my heart was a fresh tide… Where the starlike sea gulls soar; The sun was keen and the foam was… High on the rocky shore. But now in the dusk the tide is tu…
I KNOW the stars by their names, Aldebaran, Altair, And I know the path they take Up heaven’s broad blue stair. I know the secrets of men
If he could know my songs are all… At silver dawn or in the evening g… Would he not smile and think it bu… If he could know? Or would his heart rejoice and ove…
Shall we, too, rise forgetful from… And shall my soul that lies within… Remember nothing, as the blowing s… Forgets the palm where long blue s… When winds along the darkened dese…
Mary sat in the corner dreaming, Dim was the room and low, While in the dusk, the saw went sc… To and fro. Jesus and Joseph toiled together,
I plucked a snow-drop in the sprin… And in my hand too closely pressed… The warmth had hurt the tender thi… I grieved to see it withering. I gave my love a poppy red,
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