#AmericanWriters
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…
The pure products of America go crazy— mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey
Constantly near you, I never in m… sixty-four years knew you so well… or half so well. We talked. you we… so lucid, so disengaged from all e… of place and time. We talked of ou…
The birches are mad with green poi… the wood’s edge is burning with th… burning, seething—No, no, no. The birches are opening their leav… by one. Their delicate leaves unfo…
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
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
Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang
A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses