#AmericanWriters
As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right
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…
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
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,
To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...
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…
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
I will teach you my towns… how to perform a funeral… for you have it over a tr… of artists— unless one should scour t…
a burst of iris so that come down for breakfast we searched through the rooms for