#AmericanWriters
In the night Grey heavy clouds muffled the vall… And the peaks looked toward God a… “O Master that movest the wind wi… Humble, idle, futile peaks are we.
Behold, from the land of the farth… I returned. And I was in a reptile-swarming p… Peopled, otherwise, with grimaces, Shrouded above in black impenetrab…
A youth in apparel that glittered Went to walk in a grim forest. There he met an assassin Attired all in garb of old days; He, scowling through the thickets,
Each small gleam was a voice, A lantern voice— In little songs of carmine, violet… A chorus of colours came over the… The wondrous leaf-shadow no longer…
On the horizon the peaks assembled… And as I looked, The march of the mountains began. As they marched, they sang, “Aye! We come! We come!”
There came whisperings in the wind… “Good-bye! Good-bye!” Little voices called in the darkne… “Good-bye! Good-bye!” Then I stretched forth my arms.
A man went before a strange God— The God of many men, sadly wise. And the deity thundered loudly, Fat with rage, and puffing. “Kneel, mortal, and cringe
Once, I knew a fine song, —It is true, believe me— It was all of birds, And I held them in a basket; When I opened the wicket,
The sage lectured brilliantly. Before him, two images: “Now this one is a devil, And this one is me.” He turned away.
There was a man with tongue of woo… Who essayed to sing, And in truth it was lamentable. But there was one who heard The clip-clapper of this tongue of…
Fast rode the knight With spurs, hot and reeking, Ever waving an eager sword, “To save my lady!” Fast rode the knight,
Once I saw mountains angry, And ranged in battle-front. Against them stood a little man; Aye, he was no bigger than my fing… I laughed, and spoke to one near m…
‘It was wrong to do this,’ said th… ‘You should live like a flower, Holding malice like a puppy, Waging war like a lambkin.’ ‘Not so,’ quoth the man
THOU art my love And thou art the peace of sundown When the blue shadows soothe And the grasses and the leaves sle… To the song of the little brooks
To the maiden The sea was blue meadow, Alive with little froth-people Singing. To the sailor, wrecked,