#Americans #Suicide #XIXCentury #XXCentury
[A Poem for Aviators] How the Wings Were Made From many morning-glories That in an hour will fade, From many pansy buds
No doubt to-morrow I will hide My face from you, my King. Let me rejoice this Sunday noon, And kneel while gray priests sing. It is not wisdom to forget.
Where now the huts are empty, Where never a camp-fire glows, In an abandoned cañon, A Gambler’s Ghost arose. He muttered there, “The moon’s a…
I. SPEAK NOW FOR PEACE<… Lady of Light, and our best woman… Stand now for peace, (though anger… Though naught but smoke and flame… Lady of Light, speak, though you…
Sometimes we remember kisses, Remember the dear heart-leap when… Not always, but sometimes we remem… The kindness, the dumbness, the go… Of laughter and farewell.
Your dust will be upon the wind Within some certain years, Though you be sealed in lead to-da… Amid the country’s tears. When this idyllic churchyard
O you who lose the art of hope, Whose temples seem to shrine a lie… Whose sidewalks are but stones of… Who weep that Liberty must die, Turn to the little prairie towns,
An endless line of splendor, These troops with heaven for home, With creeds they go from Scotland… With incense go from Rome. These, in the name of Jesus,
We find your soft Utopias as whit… As new-cut bread, and dull as life… O, scribes who dare forget how wil… How human breasts adore alarum bel… You house us in a hive of prigs an…
We are the smirched. Queen Honor… We slept thro’ wars where Honor c… We were faint-hearted. Honor was… We kept a silence Honor could not… Yet this late day we make a song t…
Would I might wake in you the whi… Of Michelangelo, who hewed the st… And Night and Day revealed, whose… Could draw the face of God, the t… Whose genius smote like lightning…
Would I might rouse the Lincoln i… That which is gendered in the wild… From lonely prairies and God’s te… Imperial soul, star of a weedy str… Born where the ghosts of buffaloes…
Incense and Splendor haunt me as… Though my good works have been, al… Though I do naught, High Heaven… And future ages pass in tall revie… I see the years to come as armies…
And must the Senator from Illinoi… Be this squat thing, with blinking… This brazen gutter idol, reared to… Upon a leering pyramid of lies? And must the Senator from Illinoi…
The Moon’s a snowball. See the… Of white that cross the sphere. The Moon’s a snowball, melted d… A dozen times a year. Yet rolled again in hot July