#AmericanWriters
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest
The green-blue ground is ruled with silver lines to say the sun is shining And on this moral sea of grass or dreams lie flowers
Men with picked voices chant the n… of cities in a huge gallery: promi… that pull through descending stair… to a deep rumbling. The rubbing feet
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
Lady of dusk-wood fastnesses, Thou art my Lady. I have known the crisp, splinterin… White, slender through green sapli… I have lain by thee on the brown f…
Paterson lies in the valley under… its spent waters forming the outli… lies on his right side, head near… of the waters filling his dreams!… his dreams walk about the city whe…
It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife—among her five children . . .
unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line
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 May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky