#AmericanWriters
I had as lief be embraced by the p… As to get no more from the moonlig… Than your moist hand. Be the voice of the night and Flo… Use dasky words and dusky images.
First Girl When this yokel comes maundering, Whetting his hacker, I shall run before him, Diffusing the civilest odors
To sing jubilas at exact, accustom… To be crested and wear the mane of… And so, as part, to exult with its… To speak of joy and to sing of it,… The shoulders of joyous men, to fe…
I placed a jar in Tennessee, And round it was, upon a hill. It made the slovenly wilderness Surround that hill. The wilderness rose up to it,
Poetry is the supreme fiction, mad… Take the moral law and make a nave… And from the nave build haunted he… The conscience is converted into p… Like windy citherns hankering for…
On the threshold of heaven, the fi… Become the figures of heaven, the… Of men growing small in the distan… Singing, with smaller and still sm… Unintelligible absolution and an e…
Not less because in purple I desc… The western day through what you c… The loneliest air, not less was I… What was the ointment sprinkled on… What were the hymns that buzzed be…
The light is like a spider. It crawls over the water. It crawls over the edges of the sn… It crawls under your eyelids And spreads its webs there—
In my room, the world is beyond my… But when I walk I see that it con… hills and a cloud. From my balcony, I survey the yel… Reading where I have written,
The houses are haunted By white night-gowns. None are green, Or purple with green rings, Or green with yellow rings,
There is a great river this side o… Before one comes to the first blac… And trees that lack the intelligen… In that river, far this side of S… The mere flowing of the water is a…
Opusculum paedagogum. The pears are not viols, Nudes or bottles. They resemble nothing else. II
It is grass. It is monotonous. The monotony Is like your port which conceals All your characters
Children picking up our bones Will never know that these were on… As quick as foxes on the hill; And that in autumn, when the grape… Made sharp air sharper by their sm…
Just as my fingers on these keys Make music, so the self-same sound… On my spirit make a music, too. Music is feeling, then, not sound; And thus it is that what I feel,