#AmericanWriters
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
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…
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…
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely
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…
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
You Communists and Republicans! all you Germans and Frenchmen! you corpses and quickeners! The stars are about to melt and fall on you in tears.
This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with
The brutal Lord of All will rip us from each other—leave the one to suffer here alone. No need belief in god or hell to postulate that much. The dance: hands touching, leaves touch...
Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous