#AmericanWriters
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—
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—
One leaves his leaves at home beomg a mullen and sends up a ligh… to peer from: I will have my way, yellow—A mast with a lantern, ten fifty, a hundred, smaller and smal…
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
I lie here thinking of you:—— the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves,
It is a satisfaction a joy to have one of those in the house. when she takes a bath
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
By constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children’s hair, the School Physician first brought their hatred down on him.
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
Take it out in vile whisky, take i… in lifting your skirts to show you… crotches; it is this that is inten… You are it. Your pleas will alway… You too will always go up with the…
O—EH—lee! La—la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…