#AmericanWriters
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 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...
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…
When I am alone I am happy. The air is cool. The sky is flecked and splashed and wound with color. The crimson phalloi of the sassafras leaves
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
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…
The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
This particular thing, whether it be four pinches of four divers white powders cleverly compounded to cure surely, safely, pleasantly a painful twitching of the eyelids or say a pe...
beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth ——nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking the field by force; the grass