(1921)
#AmericanWriters
ALL those treasures that lie in t… Mightier than the room of the star… All those treasures—I hold them i… Against the sides and the lid and… Crying that there is no sun come a…
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
It is a satisfaction a joy to have one of those in the house. when she takes a bath
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,
This is a schoolyard crowded with children of all ages near a village on a small stream
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…
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…
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
Here it is spring again and I still a young man! I am late at my singing. The sparrow with the black rain on… has been at his cadenzas for two w…