#AmericanWriters
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
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 living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
A day on the boulevards chosen out… student poverty! One best day out… Berket in high spirits—"Ha, orang… And he made to snatch an orange fr… Now so clever was the deception, s…
I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
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.
Not because of his eyes, the eyes of a bird, but because he is beaked, birdlike, to do an injury, has the turtle attracted you.
An old willow with hollow branches slowly swayed his few high gright… and sang: Love is a young green willow shimmering at the bare wood’s edge…
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
I will teach you my towns… how to perform a funeral… for you have it over a tr… of artists— unless one should scour t…
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field