#AmericanWriters
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.
By constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children’s hair, the School Physician first brought their hatred down on him.
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
The green-blue ground is ruled with silver lines to say the sun is shining And on this moral sea of grass or dreams lie flowers
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.
beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and