#AmericanWriters
"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, th… waste of broad, muddy fields
Constantly near you, I never in m… sixty-four years knew you so well… or half so well. We talked. you we… so lucid, so disengaged from all e… of place and time. We talked of ou…
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 was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
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,
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
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…
It’s a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part!
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.
THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows