#AmericanWriters
Among the rain and lights I saw the figure 5 in gold on a red
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
Little round moon up there—wait awhile—do not walk so quickly. I could sing you a song—: Wine clear the sky is and the stars no bigger than sparks! Wait for me and next winter we’ll bui...
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.
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge
The coroner’s merry little childre… Have such twinkling brown eyes. Their father is not of gay men And their mother jocular in no wis… Yet the coroner’s merry little chi…
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
At ten AM the young housewife moves about in negligee behind the wooden walls of her husband’s… I pass solitary in my car. Then again she comes to the curb
It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.
I lie here thinking of you:—— the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves,