#AmericanWriters
This is a slight stiff dance to a waking baby whose arms have been lying curled back above his head upon the pillow, making a flower—the eyes closed. Dead to the world! Waking is a...
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely
This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with
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...
THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses
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…
The murderer’s little daughter who is barely ten years old jerks her shoulders right and left so as to catch a glimpse of me
Little round moon up there—wait awhile—do not walk so quickly. I could sing you a song—: Wine clear the sky is and the stars no bigger than sparks! Wait for me and next winter we’ll bui...
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
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...
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…