#AmericanWriters
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
Here it is spring again and I still a young man! I am late at my singing. The sparrow with the black rain on… has been at his cadenzas for two w…
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
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
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
There were some dirty plates and a glass of milk beside her on a small table near the rank, disheveled bed— Wrinkled and nearly blind
Why go further? One might conceivably rectify the rhythm, study all out and arrive at the perfection of a tiger lily or a china doorknob. One might lift all out of the ruck, be a w...
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.
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…
Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue