#AmericanWriters
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
O’eh’lee! La’la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
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 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
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 crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
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...
unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line
If a man can say of his life or any moment of his life, There is nothing more to be desired! his st… becomes like that told in the famo… double sonnet—but without the
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
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,…
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—