#AmericanWriters
It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for
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…
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
contend in a sea which the land pa… shielding them from the too—heavy… of an ungoverned ocean which when… tortures the biggest hulls, the be… to pit against its beatings, and s…
The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,
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 lie here thinking of you:—— the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves,
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
Paterson lies in the valley under… its spent waters forming the outli… lies on his right side, head near… of the waters filling his dreams!… his dreams walk about the city whe…
Among the rain and lights I saw the figure 5 in gold on a red
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on
Go to sleep—though of course you w… to tideless waves thundering slant… strong embankments, rattle and swi… dashed thirty feet high, caught by… scattered and strewn broadcast in…
Little round moon up there—wait awhile—do not walk so quickly. I could sing you a song—: Wine clear the sky is and the stars no bigger than sparks! Wait for me and next winter we’ll bui...