(1923)
#AmericanWriters
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
I lie here thinking of you:—— the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves,
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
The murderer’s little daughter who is barely ten years old jerks her shoulders right and left so as to catch a glimpse of me
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
Even in the time when as yet I had no certain knowledge of her She sprang from the nest, a young… Whose first flight circled the for… I know now how then she showed me
This horrible but superb painting the parable of the blind without a red in the composition shows a group of beggars leading
At ten AM the young housewife moves about in negligee behind the wooden walls of her husband’s… I pass solitary in my car. Then again she comes to the curb
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees
Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…