#AmericanWriters
While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
The pure products of America go crazy— mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which
The sky has given over its bitterness. Out of the dark change all day long rain falls and falls
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
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…
You know there is not much that I desire, a few chrysanthemum… half lying on the grass, yellow and brown and white, the talk of a few people, the trees,
They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.
Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth ——nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking the field by force; the grass
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang
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…