#AmericanWriters
It is still warm enough to slip from the weeds into the lake’s edge, your clothes blushing in the grass and three small boys grinning behind the derelict hearth’s side. But summer...
If a man can say of his life or any moment of his life, There is nothing more to be desired! his st… becomes like that told in the famo… double sonnet—but without the
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
The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge
I have had my dream—like others— and it has come to nothing, so tha… I remain now carelessly with feet planted on the ground and look up at the sky—
Fools have big wombs. For the rest?'here is pennyroyal if one knows to use it. But time is only another liar, so go along the wall a little further: if blackberries prove bitter...
Not because of his eyes, the eyes of a bird, but because he is beaked, birdlike, to do an injury, has the turtle attracted you.
I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
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