#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
Oh if I were the velvet rose Upon the red rose vine, I’d climb to touch his window And make his casement fine. And if I were the little bird
I asked the heaven of stars What I should I give my love— It answered me with silence, Silence above. I asked the darkened sea
We are apart; the city grows quiet… She hushes herself, for midnight m… The tangle of traffic is ended, th… Five streets divide us, and on the… Oh are you asleep, or lying awake,…
She is too kind, I think, for mor… Too gentle for the gusty ways of e… God gave to her a shy and silver m… And made her soul as clear And softly singing as an orchard s…
The city’s all a-shining Beneath a fickle sun, A gay young wind’s a-blowing, The little shower is done. But the rain-drops still are cling…
I have come the selfsame path To the selfsame door, Years have left the roses there Burning as before While I watch them in the wind
Infinite gentleness, infinite iron… Are in this face with fast-sealed… And round this mouth that learned… How useless their wisdom is to the… In her nun’s habit carved, careful…
When I talk with other men I always think of you— Your words are keener than their w… And they are gentler, too. When I look at other men,
I am not yours, not lost in you, Not lost, although I long to be Lost as a candle lit at noon, Lost as a snowflake in the sea. You love me, and I find you still
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
When I can make my thoughts come… To walk like ladies up and down, Each one puts on before the glass Her most becoming hat and gown. But oh, the shy and eager thoughts
Dreamily over the roofs The cold spring rain is falling, Out in the lonely tree A bird is calling, calling. Slowly over the earth
At midnight, when the moonlit cypr… Have woven round his grave a magic… Still weeping the unfinished hymn… There moves fresh Maia, like a mo… Blown over jonquil beds when warm…
You bound strong sandals on my fee… You gave me bread and wine, And sent me under sun and stars, For all the world was mine. Oh, take the sandals off my feet,