#Activities #AmericanWriters #MoneyAndEconomics #SocialCommentaries
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
NOW that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished mas… Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances,
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
The pure products of America go crazy— mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey
There were some dirty plates and a glass of milk beside her on a small table near the rank, disheveled bed— Wrinkled and nearly blind
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
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
Love is twain, it is not single, Gold and silver mixed to one, Passion 'tis and pain which ming… Glist’ring then for aye undone. Pain it is not; wondering pity
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, th… waste of broad, muddy fields
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
I will teach you my towns… how to perform a funeral… for you have it over a tr… of artists— unless one should scour t…