(1916)
#AmericanWriters
The birches are mad with green poi… the wood’s edge is burning with th… burning, seething—No, no, no. The birches are opening their leav… by one. Their delicate leaves unfo…
In Brueghel’s great picture, The… the dancers go round, they go roun… around, the squeal and the blare a… tweedle of bagpipes, a bugle and f… tipping their bellies (round as th…
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, the waste of broad, muddy fields
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,
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
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
While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on