I WROTE a poem on the mist And a woman asked me what I meant… I had thought till then only of th… how pearl and gray of it mix and r… And change the drab shanties with…

RED drips from my chin where I h… Not all the blood, nowhere near al… Clots of red mess my hair And the tiger, the buffalo, know h… I was a killer.

GUNS on the battle lines have po… between Brussels and Paris. And, William Morris, when I read… the great arches and naves and lit… corners of the Churches of Northe…

Mamie Riley married Jimmy Higgins last night: Eddie Jones died of whooping cough: George Hacks got a job on the police force: the Rosenheims bought a brass bed: Lena Hart giggled at a j...

GOOD-BY now to the streets and… locking hubs, The sun coming on the brass buckle… The muscles of the horses sliding… haunches,

ONCE when I saw a cripple Gasping slowly his last days with… Looking from hollow eyes, calling… Desperately gesturing with wasted… In the dark and dust of a house do…

I WAITED today for a freight tr… Cattle cars with steers butting th… bars, went by. And a half a dozen hoboes stood on… cars.

PASSERS-BY, Out of your many faces Flash memories to me Now at the day end Away from the sidewalks

WHEN the jury files in to deliver a verdict after weeks of direct and cross examinations, hot clashes of lawyers and cool decisions of the judge, There are points of high silence—twid...

EMPTY battlefields keep their ph… Grass crawls over old gun wheels And a nodding Canada thistle flin… Into the summer’s southwest wind, Wrapping a root in the rust of a b…

SHE loves blood-red poppies for a… In a loose white gown she walks and a new child tugs at cords in h… Her head to the west at evening wh… A shudder of gladness runs in her…

OVER the dead line we have calle… To come across with a word to us, Some beaten whisper of what happen… Where you are over the dead line Deaf to our calls and voiceless.

YOUR eyes and the valley are mem… Your eyes fire and the valley a bo… It was here a moonrise crept over… It was here we turned the coffee c… And your eyes and the moon swept t…

I AM the nigger. Singer of songs, Dancer. . . Softer than fluff of cotton. . . Harder than dark earth

FIVE circus clowns dying this year, morning newspapers told their lives, how each one horizontal in a last gesture of hands arranged by an undertaker, shook thousands into convulsions o...