#AmericanWriters
Mindful of you the sodden earth in… And all the flowers that in the sp… And dusty roads, and thistles, and… Rising of the round moon, all thro… The summer through, and each depar…
Brother, that breathe the August… Ten thousand years from now, And smell—if still your orchards b… Tart apples on the bough— The early windfall under the tree,
(Nicola Sacco—Bartolomeo Vanzett… Executed August 23, 1927 As men have loved their lovers in… And sung their wit, their virtue a… So have we loved sweet Justice to…
I know the face of Falsehood and… Honeyed with unction, Plausible w… Are dear to men, whom count me not… That owe their daily credit to her… Such have been succoured out of gr…
The room is full of you!—As I cam… And closed the door behind me, all… A something in the air, intangible… Yet stiff with meaning, struck my… Sharp, unfamiliar odors have destr…
Ho, Giant! This is I! I have built me a bean-stalk into… La,—but it’s lovely, up so high! This is how I came,—I put Here my knee, there my foot,
Let us abandon then our gardens an… And sit in the sitting-room Shall the larkspur blossom or the… Sour to the fruitful seed Is the cold earth under this cloud…
Here is a wound that never will he… Being wrought not of a dearness an… But of a love turned ashes and the… Gone out of beauty; never again wi… The grass on that scarred acre, th…
Into the golden vessel of great so… Let us pour all our passion; breas… Let other lovers lie, in love and… Not we,—articulate, so, but with t… Of all the world: the churning blo…
April this year, not otherwise Than April of a year ago, Is full of whispers, full of sighs… Of dazzling mud and dingy snow; Hepaticas that pleased you so
I looked in my heart while the wil… And what did I see I had not seen… Only a question less or a question… Nothing to match the flight of wil… Tiresome heart, forever living and…
Detestable race, continue to expun… Breed faster, crowd, encroach, sin… Make speeches, unveil statues, iss… Convert again into explosives the… Convert again into putrescent matt…
Still must the poet as of old, In barren attic bleak and cold, Starve, freeze, and fashion verses… Such things as flowers and song an… Still as of old his being give
These wet rocks where the tide has… Barnacled white and weeded brown And slimed beneath to a beautiful… These wet rocks where the tide wen… Will show again when the tide is h…