#AmericanWriters
The voice of the last cricket across the first frost is one kind of good-by. It is so thin a splinter of singin…
YOUR bony head, Jazbo, O dock w… Those grappling hooks, those wheel… The dome and the wings of you, nig… The red roof and the door of you, I know where your songs came from.
IN western fields of corn and nor… They talk about me, a saloon with… The soft red lights, the long curv… The leather seats and dim corners, Tall brass spittoons, a nigger cut…
THE WASHERWOMAN is a member… And over the tub of suds rubbing u… She sings that Jesus will wash he… And the red wrongs she has done G… Shall be white as driven snow.
I AM the mist, the impalpable mis… Back of the thing you seek. My arms are long, Long as the reach of time and spac… Some toil and toil, believing,
Five geese deploy mysteriously. Onward proudly with flagstaffs, Hearses with silver bugles, Bushes of plum-blossoms dropping For ten mystic web-feet—
THE GRAVE of Alexander Hamilt… The grave of Robert Fulton likewi… And in this yard stenogs, bundle b… An iron picket fence... and stream… ... easy is the sleep of Alexander…
THE FLUTTER of blue pigeon’s… Under a river bridge Hunting a clean dry arch, A corner for a sleep– This flutters here in a woman’s ha…
LEAVES of poplars pick Japanese… Moon sand on the canal doubles the… The moon’s good-by ends pictures. The west is empty. All else is em… Only dark listening to dark.
Hope is a tattered flag and a drea… Hope is a heartspun word, the rain… The evening star inviolable over t… The shimmer of northern lights acr… The blue hills beyond the smoke of…
MY head knocks against the stars. My feet are on the hilltops. My finger-tips are in the valleys… universal life. Down in the sounding foam of prima…
FACES of two eternities keep loo… One is Omar Khayam and the red st… wherein men forget yesterday and t… and remember only the voices and s… the stories, newspapers and fights…
SMASH down the cities. Knock the walls to pieces. Break the factories and cathedrals… and homes Into loose piles of stone and lumb…
THE SEA at its worst drives a w… The same sea sometimes so easy and… So you were there when the white f… And the salt spatter and the rack… You were done fingering these, and…
FLAT lands on the end of town where real estate men are crying new subdivisions, The sunsets pour blood and fire over you hundreds and hundreds of nights, flat lands—blood and fire of...