#AmericanWriters
The black panther lies under his r… And the fawns come to sniff at his… Evoe, Evoe, Evoe Baccho, O ZAGREUS, Zagreus, Zagreus, The black panther lies under his r…
Turned from the 'eau-forte Par Jaquemart’ To the strait head Of Messalina: ‘His true Penelope
`Tis of my country that I would e… In hope to set some misconceptions… My country? I love it well, and t… Who, since their wit’s unknown, es… But you stuffed coats who’re neith…
Aye you’re a man that! ye old mesm… Tyin’ your meanin’ in seventy swad… One must of needs be a hang’d earl… To catch you at worm turning. Hol… ‘Cat’s i’ the water butt!' Though…
Luini in porcelain! The grand piano Utters a profane Protest with her clear soprano. The sleek head emerges
O woe, woe, People are born and die, We also shall be dead pretty soon Therefore let us act as if we were dead already.
Lived on one’s back, In the long hours of repose, Life is a practical nightmare - Hideous asleep or awake. Shoulders and loins
“Thank you, whatever comes” And t… And, as the ray of sun on hanging… Fades when the wind hath lifted th… Went swiftly from me. Nay, whatev… One hour was sunlit and the most h…
That was the top of the walk, when… ‘Have you seen any others, any of… With apes or bears?’ A brown upstanding fellow Not like the half-castes,
There is no land like England Where banks rise day by day, There are no banks like English b… To make the people pay. There is no such land of castles
If all the grief and woe and bitte… All dolour, ill and every evil cha… That ever came upon this grieving… Were set together they would seem… Against the death of the young En…
IN o more for us the little sighi… No more the winds at twilight trou… Lo the fair dead! No more do I burn. No more for us the fluttering of w…
Red knights, brown bishops, bright… Striking the board, falling in str… colour. Reaching and striking in angles, holding lines in one colour.
The West a glimmering lake of lig… A dream of pearly weather, The first of stars is burning whit… The star we watch together. Is April dead? The unresting year
Though thou well dost wish me ill Audiart, Audiart, Where thy bodice laces start As ivy fingers clutching through Its crevices,