#AmericanWriters
The grass is very green, my friend… and tousled, like the head of —— your grandson, yes? And the mounta… the mountain we climbed twenty years since for the last
They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.
One leaves his leaves at home beomg a mullen and sends up a ligh… to peer from: I will have my way, yellow—A mast with a lantern, ten fifty, a hundred, smaller and smal…
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,
contend in a sea which the land pa… shielding them from the too—heavy… of an ungoverned ocean which when… tortures the biggest hulls, the be… to pit against its beatings, and s…
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
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
At ten AM the young housewife moves about in negligee behind the wooden walls of her husband’s… I pass solitary in my car. Then again she comes to the curb
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
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
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!