#AmericanWriters
It is still warm enough to slip from the weeds into the lake’s edge, your clothes blushing in the grass and three small boys grinning behind the derelict hearth’s side. But summer...
Men with picked voices chant the n… of cities in a huge gallery: promi… that pull through descending stair… to a deep rumbling. The rubbing feet
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on
This horrible but superb painting the parable of the blind without a red in the composition shows a group of beggars leading
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
Why pretend to remember the weather two years back? Why not? Listen close then repeat after others what they have just said and win a reputation for vivacity. Oh feed upon petals o...
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…
Oh strong—ridged and deeply hollow… nose of mine! what will you not be… What tactless asses we are, you an… always indiscriminate, always unas… and now it is the souring flowers…
Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely
The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow
"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which
This is a schoolyard crowded with children of all ages near a village on a small stream
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one