#AmericanWriters
Well, Lizzie Anderson! seventeen… the baby hard to find a father for… What will the good Father in Heav… to the local judge if he do not so… A little two-pointed smile and—pou…
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!
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…
"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—
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.
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
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
This horrible but superb painting the parable of the blind without a red in the composition shows a group of beggars leading
To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...
I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.
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...
Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue