#AmericanWriters
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices
In this world of as fine a pair of breasts as ever I saw the fountain in Madison Square
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,
When the snow falls the flakes spi… that concerns them most intimately two and two to make a dance the mind dances with itself, taking you by the hand,
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.
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
Paterson lies in the valley under… its spent waters forming the outli… lies on his right side, head near… of the waters filling his dreams!… his dreams walk about the city whe…
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
The grass is very green, my friend… and tousled, like the head of —— your grandson, yes? And the mounta… the mountain we climbed twenty years since for the last
A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which
Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth ——nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking the field by force; the grass
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
NOW that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished mas… Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances,
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich