#Americans
These fought in any case, and some believing pro domo, in any case ..... Died some, pro patria, walked eye—deep in hell
1 his papier-mâché, which you see,… Saith ’twas the worthiest of edito… Its mind was made up in 'the seven… Nor hath it ever since changed tha… It works to represent that school…
This is another of our ancient lov… Pass and be silent, Rullus, for t… Hath lacked a something since this… Hath lacked a something. ’Twas bu…
For the seven lakes, and by no man… Rain; empty river; a voyage, Fire from frozen cloud, heavy rain… Under the cabin roof was one lante… The reeds are heavy; bent;
Candidia has taken a new lover And three poets are gone into mour… The first has written a long elegy… To ‘Chloris chaste and cold,’ his… The second has written a sonnet
No man hath dared to write this th… And yet I know, how that the soul… At times pass athrough us, And we are melted into them, and a… Save reflexions of their souls.
Thy soul Grown delicate with satieties, Atthis. O Atthis, I long for thy lips.
O My songs, Why do you look so eagerly and so… people’s faces, Will you find your lost dead among…
ROSE WHITE, YELLOW, SILV… The swirl of light follows me thro… The smoke of incense Mounts from the four horns of my b… The water-jet of gold light bears…
Here we are, picking the first fer… And saying: When shall we get bac… Here we are because we have the K… We have no comfort because of thes… We grub the soft fern—shoots,
Empty are the ways, Empty are the ways of this land And the flowers Bend over with heavy heads. They bend in vain.
Sing we for love and idleness, Naught else is worth the having. Though I have been in many a land… There is naught else in living. And I would rather have my sweet,
And the days are not full enough And the nights are not full enough And life slips by like a field mou… Not shaking the grass
The ways are green with the gladde… Of the young year’s fairest daught… O, the shadows that fleet o’er the… O, the magic of running water! The spirit of spring is in every t…
Vex not thou the banker’s mind (His what?) with a show of sense, Vex it not, Willie, his mind, Or pierce its pretence On the supposition that it ever
