#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,…
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang
"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—
Lady of dusk-wood fastnesses, Thou art my Lady. I have known the crisp, splinterin… White, slender through green sapli… I have lain by thee on the brown f…
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
This is a slight stiff dance to a waking baby whose arms have been lying curled back above his head upon the pillow, making a flower—the eyes closed. Dead to the world! Waking is a...
Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees
Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife—among her five children . . .
I’ve fond anticipation of a day O’erfilled with pure diversion pre… For I must read a lady poesy The while we glide by many a leafy… Hid deep in rushes, where at rando…
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
This horrible but superb painting the parable of the blind without a red in the composition shows a group of beggars leading
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
Constantly near you, I never in m… sixty-four years knew you so well… or half so well. We talked. you we… so lucid, so disengaged from all e… of place and time. We talked of ou…