#AmericanWriters
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
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…
A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
Paterson lies in the valley under… its spent waters forming the outli… lies on his right side, head near… of the waters filling his dreams!… his dreams walk about the city whe…
They tell me on the morrow I must… This winter eyrie for a southern f… And truth to tell I tremble with… At thought of such unheralded repr… E’er have I known December in a w…
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
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
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
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,
The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,