#AmericanWriters
Lo, how it gleams and glistens in… Like the cheek of a Chesterton.
A poor clerk I, 'Arnaut the less’… And because I have small mind to… Day long, long day cooped on a sto… A-jumbling o’ figures for Maitre… I ha’ taken to rambling the South…
Leucis, who intended a Grand Pass… Ends with a willingness-to-oblige.
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;
Gladstone was still respected, When John Ruskin produced ‘King’s Treasuries’; Swinburne And Rossetti still abused. Foetid Buchanan lifted up his voi…
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…
Kung walked by the dynastic temple and into the cedar grove, and then out by the lower river, And with him Khieu Tchi
The very small children in patched… Being smitten with an unusual wisd… Stopped in their play as she passe… And cried up from their cobbles: Guarda! Ahi, guarda! Ch’ è be’ a!
A square, squat room (a cellar on… Drab to the soul, drab to the very… Plasters astray in unnatural-looki… Scissors and lint and apothecary’s… Here, on a bench a skeleton would…
O Dieu, purifiez nos cceurs! Purifiez nos coeurs! Yea the lines hast thou laid unto… in pleasant places, And the beauty of this thy Venice
I stood still and was a tree amid… Knowing the truth of things unseen… Of Daphne and the laurel bow And that god—feasting couple old that grew elm—oak amid the wold.
The red and green kingfishers flash between the orchids and clov… One bird casts its gleam on anothe… Green vines hang through the high… They weave a whole roof to the mou…
I see by the morning papers That America’s sturdy sons Have started a investigation Of the making of guns. The morning paper tells me
The ways of Death are soothing an… And all the words of Death are gr… From camp and church, the fireside… She beckons forth– and strife and… A summer night descending cool and…
There is a wheel inside my head Of wantonness and wine, An old, cracked fiddle is begging… But the wind with scents of the se… And the sun seems glad to shine.