#AmericanWriters
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
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—
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and
Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of
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…
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…
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
They tell me on the morrow I must… This winter eyrie for a southern f… And truth to tell I tremble with… At thought of such unheralded repr… E’er have I known December in a w…
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices
Love is twain, it is not single, Gold and silver mixed to one, Passion 'tis and pain which ming… Glist’ring then for aye undone. Pain it is not; wondering pity
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...
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one