#AmericanWriters #Ekphrasis
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
Love is twain, it is not single, Gold and silver mixed to one, Passion 'tis and pain which ming… Glist’ring then for aye undone. Pain it is not; wondering pity
The murderer’s little daughter who is barely ten years old jerks her shoulders right and left so as to catch a glimpse of me
My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with
Oh strong—ridged and deeply hollow… nose of mine! what will you not be… What tactless asses we are, you an… always indiscriminate, always unas… and now it is the souring flowers…
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…
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
When over the flowery, sharp pastu… edge, unseen, the salt ocean lifts its form—chicory and daisies tied, released, seem hardly flower… but color and the movement—or the…
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.