#AmericanWriters
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…
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…
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely
A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
O’eh’lee! La’la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
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...
You know there is not much that I desire, a few chrysanthemum… half lying on the grass, yellow and brown and white, the talk of a few people, the trees,
Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue
Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!
Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
Even in the time when as yet I had no certain knowledge of her She sprang from the nest, a young… Whose first flight circled the for… I know now how then she showed me