#1928 #AmericanWriters #WestRunningBrook
Old Davis owned a solid mica moun… In Dalton that would someday make… There’d been some Boston people o… And experts said that deep down in… The mica sheets were big as plate-…
A bird half wakened in the lunar n… Sang half way through its little i… Partly because it sang but once al… And that from no especial bush’s h… Partly because it sang ventriloqui…
It is blue-butterfly day here in s… And with these sky-flakes down in… There is more unmixed color on the… Than flowers will show for days un… But these are flowers that fly and…
The bear puts both arms around the… And draws it down as if it were a… And its choke cherries lips to kis… Then lets it snap back upright in… Her next step rocks a boulder on t…
Abstraction is an old story with the philosophers, but it has been like a new toy in the hands of the artists of our day. Why can’t we have any one quality of poetry we choose by itself...
Thus of old the Douglas did: He left his land as he was bid With the royal heart of Robert th… In a golden case with a golden lid… To carry the same to the Holy Lan…
A tree’s leaves may be ever so goo… So may its bar, so may its wood; But unless you put the right thing… It never will show much flower or… But I may be one who does not car…
The surest thing there is is we ar… And though none too successful at… Through everything presented, land… And now the very air, of what we r… What is this talked-of mystery of…
I have been treading on leaves all… God knows all the color and form o… Perhaps I have put forth too much… I have safely trodden underfoot th… All summer long they were over hea…
“OH, let’s go up the hill and sca… As reckless as the best of them to… By setting fire to all the brush w… With pitchy hands to wait for rain… Oh, let’s not wait for rain to mak…
If this uncertain age in which we… Were really as dark as I hear sag… And I convinced that they were re… I should not curse myself with it… But leaving not the chair I long…
There was never a sound beside the… And that was my long scythe whispe… What was it it whispered? I knew… Perhaps it was something about the… Something, perhaps, about the lack…
I left you in the morning, And in the morning glow, You walked a way beside me To make me sad to go. Do you know me in the gloaming,
There overtook me and drew me in To his down-hill, early-morning st… And set me five miles on my road Better than if he had had me ride, A man with a swinging bag for’load
All crying, ‘We will go with you,… The foliage follow him, leaf and s… But a sleep oppresses them as they… And they end by bidding them as th… And they end by bidding him stay w…