#AmericanWriters
It will not hurt me when I am old… A running tide where moonlight bur… Will not sting me like silver snak… The years will make me sad and col… It is the happy heart that breaks.
I heard a cry in the night, A thousand miles it came, Sharp as a flash of light, My name, my name! It was your voice I heard,
Pierrot stands in the garden Beneath a waning moon, And on his lute he fashions A little silver tune. Pierrot plays in the garden,
I am free of love as a bird flying… Swift and intent, asking no joy fr… Glad to forget all of the passion… Ere it was love-free. I am free of love, and I listen t…
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,
Oh Loves there are that enter in, And Loves there are that wait, And Loves that sit a-weeping Whose joy will come too late. For some there be that ope their d…
I. Spirit’s House From naked stones of agony I will build a house for me; As a mason all alone I will raise it, stone by stone,
DEATH went up the hall Unseen by every one, Trailing twilight robes Past the nurse and the nun. He paused at every door
The northern woods are delicately… The lake is folded softly by the s… But I am restless for the subway’… The thunder and the hurrying of fe… I try to sleep, but still my eyeli…
The dreams of my heart and my mind… Nothing stays with me long, But I have had from a child The deep solace of song; If that should ever leave me,
SUN-SWEPT beaches with a light… From the immense blue circle of th… And the soft thunder where long wa… These were the same for Sappho as… Two thousand years’much has gone…
O mother, I am sick of love, I cannot laugh nor lift my head, My bitter dreams have broken me, I would my love were dead. “Drink of the draught I brew for…
To-night I close my eyes and see A strange procession passing me— The years before I saw your face Go by me with a wistful grace; They pass, the sensitive, shy year…
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…
The lightning spun your garment fo… Of silver filaments with fire shot… A broidery of lamps that lit for y… The steadfast splendor of enduring… The moon drifts dimly in the heave…