(1916)
#AmericanWriters
When over the flowery, sharp pastu… edge, unseen, the salt ocean lifts its form—chicory and daisies tied, released, seem hardly flower… but color and the movement—or the…
Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!
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…
The brutal Lord of All will rip us from each other—leave the one to suffer here alone. No need belief in god or hell to postulate that much. The dance: hands touching, leaves touch...
Lady of dusk-wood fastnesses, Thou art my Lady. I have known the crisp, splinterin… White, slender through green sapli… I have lain by thee on the brown f…
Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees
I’ve fond anticipation of a day O’erfilled with pure diversion pre… For I must read a lady poesy The while we glide by many a leafy… Hid deep in rushes, where at rando…
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
Why pretend to remember the weather two years back? Why not? Listen close then repeat after others what they have just said and win a reputation for vivacity. Oh feed upon petals o...
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it: