(1923)
#AmericanWriters
The coroner’s merry little childre… Have such twinkling brown eyes. Their father is not of gay men And their mother jocular in no wis… Yet the coroner’s merry little chi…
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
I gotta buy me a new girdle. (I’ll buy you one) O.K.
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,…
Oh strong—ridged and deeply hollow… nose of mine! what will you not be… What tactless asses we are, you an… always indiscriminate, always unas… and now it is the souring flowers…
While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
This particular thing, whether it be four pinches of four divers white powders cleverly compounded to cure surely, safely, pleasantly a painful twitching of the eyelids or say a pe...
a burst of iris so that come down for breakfast we searched through the rooms for
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
The grass is very green, my friend… and tousled, like the head of —— your grandson, yes? And the mounta… the mountain we climbed twenty years since for the last