Cornhuskers. 1918.
#AmericanWriters
FLANDERS, the name of a place,… Spells itself with letters, is wri… “Where is Flanders?” was asked on… Flanders known only to those who l… And milked cows and made cheese an…
I AM a copper wire slung in the a… Slim against the sun I make not e… Night and day I keep singing—humm… It is love and war and money; it i… tears, the work and want,
IN western fields of corn and nor… They talk about me, a saloon with… The soft red lights, the long curv… The leather seats and dim corners, Tall brass spittoons, a nigger cut…
EARLY May, after cold rain the… Irish setter pup finds a corner ne… Cuddling there he crosses forepaws… Sideways on this pillow, dozing in… Browns of hazel nut, mahogany, ros…
THE shadows of the ships Rock on the crest In the low blue lustre Of the tardy and the soft inrollin… A long brown bar at the dip of the…
OPEN the door now. Go roll up the collar of your coat To walk in the changing scarf of m… Tell your sins here to the pearl f… And know for once a deepening nigh…
ON the lips of the child Janet fl… It is a thin spiral of blue smoke, A morning campfire at a mountain l… On the lips of the child Janet, Wisps of haze on ten miles of corn…
THREE violins are trying their h… The piece is MacDowell’s Wild Ro… And the time of the wild rose And the leaves of the wild rose And the dew-shot eyes of the wild…
JOY... weaving two violet petals for a coat lapel... painting on a slab of night sky a Christ face... slipping new brass keys into rusty iron locks and shouldering till at last the door...
PAPA JOFFRE, the shoulders of him wide as the land of France. We look on the shoulders filling the stage of the Chicago Auditorium. A fat mayor has spoken much English and the mud o...
LET me be monosyllabic to-day, O… Yesterday I loosed a snarl of wor… on a child. To-day, let me be monosyllabic … a… who wash sunlight in their fingers…
In the pocket of the first, the earliest evening star.. . . There is a sheet of red ember glow on the river; it is dusk; and the muskrats one by one go on patrol routes west. Arou...
What is the name you called me?— And why did you go so soon? The crows lift their caws on the w… And the wind changed and was lonel… The warblers cry thier sleepy-song…
BLOSSOMS of babies Blinking their stories Come soft On the dusk and the babble; Little red gamblers,
(We can succeed only by concert. . . . The dogmas of the quiet past are inadequate to the stormy present. The occasion is piled high with difficulty, and we must rise with the occasion....