#AmericanWriters
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
Even in the time when as yet I had no certain knowledge of her She sprang from the nest, a young… Whose first flight circled the for… I know now how then she showed me
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…
They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.
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...
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
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…
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, the waste of broad, muddy fields
Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…
When over the flowery, sharp pastu… edge, unseen, the salt ocean lifts its form—chicory and daisies tied, released, seem hardly flower… but color and the movement—or the…
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one