(1923)
#AmericanWriters
My townspeople, beyond in the grea… are many with whom it were far mor… profitable for me to live than her… These whirr about me calling, call… and for my own part I answer them,…
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
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.
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
Little round moon up there—wait awhile—do not walk so quickly. I could sing you a song—: Wine clear the sky is and the stars no bigger than sparks! Wait for me and next winter we’ll bui...
This plot of ground facing the waters of this inlet is dedicated to the living presenc… Emily Dickinson Wellcome who was born in England; married;
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
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…