#AmericanWriters
My townspeople, beyond in the grea… are many with whom it were far mor… profitable for me to live than her… These whirr about me calling, call… and for my own part I answer them,…
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and
It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good
Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!
Here it is spring again and I still a young man! I am late at my singing. The sparrow with the black rain on… has been at his cadenzas for two w…
If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, the waste of broad, muddy fields
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left