#AmericanWriters
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, the waste of broad, muddy fields
This is a schoolyard crowded with children of all ages near a village on a small stream
Even in the time when as yet I had no certain knowledge of her She sprang from the nest, a young… Whose first flight circled the for… I know now how then she showed me
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with
You Communists and Republicans! all you Germans and Frenchmen! you corpses and quickeners! The stars are about to melt and fall on you in tears.
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
You know there is not much that I desire, a few chrysanthemum… half lying on the grass, yellow and brown and white, the talk of a few people, the trees,
Subtle, clever brain, wiser than… by what devious means do you contr… to remain idle? Teach me, O maste…
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,
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.
THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—