#AmericanWriters
Well, Lizzie Anderson! seventeen… the baby hard to find a father for… What will the good Father in Heav… to the local judge if he do not so… A little two-pointed smile and—pou…
A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which
Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest
Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,
My wife’s new pink slippers have gay pompons. There is not a spot or a stain on their satin toes or their sides… All night they lie together
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
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 whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
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 half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
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 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...
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire