#AmericanWriters
"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—
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
Fools have big wombs. For the rest?'here is pennyroyal if one knows to use it. But time is only another liar, so go along the wall a little further: if blackberries prove bitter...
O—EH—lee! La—la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,
When over the flowery, sharp pastu… edge, unseen, the salt ocean lifts its form—chicory and daisies tied, released, seem hardly flower… but color and the movement—or the…
In Brueghel’s great picture, The… the dancers go round, they go roun… around, the squeal and the blare a… tweedle of bagpipes, a bugle and f… tipping their bellies (round as th…
If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…
Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which
Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest
unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line
They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.
A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.