#AmericanWriters
WHEN the jury files in to deliver a verdict after weeks of direct and cross examinations, hot clashes of lawyers and cool decisions of the judge, There are points of high silence—twid...
There are no handles upon a langua… Whereby men take hold of it And mark it with signs for its rem… It is a river, this language, Once in a thousand years
TOMB of a millionaire, A multi-millionaire, ladies and ge… Place of the dead where they spend… The usury of twenty-five thousand… For upkeep and flowers
THE KNEES of this proud woman are bone. The elbows of this proud woman
Maybe he believes me, maybe not. Maybe I can marry him, maybe not. Maybe the wind on the prairie, The wind on the sea, maybe, Somebody, somewhere, maybe can tel…
I WROTE a poem on the mist And a woman asked me what I meant… I had thought till then only of th… how pearl and gray of it mix and r… And change the drab shanties with…
ON the street Slung on his shoulder is a handle… Tied in a big knot on the scoop of… Are the overalls faded from sun an… Spatter of dry clay sticking yello…
IN the moonlight under a shag-bar… Watching the yellow shadows melt i… Listening to the yes and the no of… I kept my guess why the night was… The night was lit with a woman’s e…
JACK was a swarthy, swaggering s… He worked thirty years on the rail… and his hands were tougher than so… He married a tough woman and they… and the woman died and the childre…
THE DOUBLE moon, one on the hi… The sky moon of fire and the river… I saw them last night, a cradle mo… The river-I remember this like a… I know now it takes many many year…
YOU never come back. I say good-by when I see you goin… The hopeless open doors that call… And take you then for—how many cen… How many cents for the sleepy eyes…
Here is dust remembers it was a ro… one time and lay in a woman’s hair… Here is dust remembers it was a wo… one time and in her hair lay a ros… Oh things one time dust, what else…
In the loam we sleep, In the cool moist loam, To the lull of years that pass And the break of stars, From the loam, then,
IT is something to face the sun and know you are free. To hold your head in the shafts of daylight slanting the earth And know your heart has kept a promise and the blood runs clean: To...
Not exactly the spinning circles of singing golden spiders, Not exactly this have they got at nor the meaning of flowers—O flowers, flowers slung by a dancing girl—in the saddest play t...