#AmericanWriters
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow
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
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, th… waste of broad, muddy fields
Go to sleep—though of course you w… to tideless waves thundering slant… strong embankments, rattle and swi… dashed thirty feet high, caught by… scattered and strewn broadcast in…
It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for
A day on the boulevards chosen out… student poverty! One best day out… Berket in high spirits—"Ha, orang… And he made to snatch an orange fr… Now so clever was the deception, s…
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
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.
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.
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