(1916)
#AmericanWriters
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.
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.
The brutal Lord of All will rip us from each other—leave the one to suffer here alone. No need belief in god or hell to postulate that much. The dance: hands touching, leaves touch...
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow
It is still warm enough to slip from the weeds into the lake’s edge, your clothes blushing in the grass and three small boys grinning behind the derelict hearth’s side. But summer...
You Communists and Republicans! all you Germans and Frenchmen! you corpses and quickeners! The stars are about to melt and fall on you in tears.
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
Fools have big wombs. For the rest?'here is pennyroyal if one knows to use it. But time is only another liar, so go along the wall a little further: if blackberries prove bitter...
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...