#AmericanWriters
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
Among of green stiff old
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
The green-blue ground is ruled with silver lines to say the sun is shining And on this moral sea of grass or dreams lie flowers
In this world of as fine a pair of breasts as ever I saw the fountain in Madison Square
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
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…
beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
School is over. It is too hot to walk at ease. At ease in light frocks they walk the stre… to while the time away. They have grown tall. They hold
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
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…
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang
This is a slight stiff dance to a waking baby whose arms have been lying curled back above his head upon the pillow, making a flower—the eyes closed. Dead to the world! Waking is a...
I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine