#AmericanWriters
Love is twain, it is not single, Gold and silver mixed to one, Passion 'tis and pain which ming… Glist’ring then for aye undone. Pain it is not; wondering pity
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—
This plot of ground facing the waters of this inlet is dedicated to the living presenc… Emily Dickinson Wellcome who was born in England; married;
To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...
This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with
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…
I’ve fond anticipation of a day O’erfilled with pure diversion pre… For I must read a lady poesy The while we glide by many a leafy… Hid deep in rushes, where at rando…
A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
When trouble comes your soul to tr… You love the friend who just “stan… Perhaps there’s nothing he can do’ The thing is strictly up to you; For there are troubles all your ow…
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
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
When the snow falls the flakes spi… that concerns them most intimately two and two to make a dance the mind dances with itself, taking you by the hand,