#Americans
THE TIME has gone by. The child is dead. The child was never even born. Why go on? Why so much as begin? How can we turn the clock back now
On Forty-first Street near Eighth Avenue a frame house wobbles. If houses went on crutches this house would be
OUT of white lips a question: Sh… Out of white lips:—Shall they hav… Out of white lips:—Is the red in… Out of white lips a white pain mur…
MEMORY of you is . . . a blue s… I cannot remember the name of it. Alongside a bold dripping poppy is… And they cover you.
In the pocket of the first, the earliest evening star.. . . There is a sheet of red ember glow on the river; it is dusk; and the muskrats one by one go on patrol routes west. Arou...
I was a boy when I heard three re… a thousand Frenchmen died in the s… for: Liberty, Equality, Fraternit… why men die for words. I was older; men with mustaches, s…
THREE violins are trying their h… The piece is MacDowell’s Wild Ro… And the time of the wild rose And the leaves of the wild rose And the dew-shot eyes of the wild…
YOU will come one day in a waver… Tender as dew, impetuous as rain, The tan of the sun will be on your… The purr of the breeze in your mur… You will pose with a hill-flower g…
I AM the people—the mob—the crowd… Do you know that all the great wor… done through me? I am the workingman, the inventor,… world’s food and clothes.
AFTER the last red sunset glimme… Black on the line of a low hill ri… Formed into moving shadows, I saw A plowboy and two horses lined aga… Plowing in the dusk the last furro…
Tall timber stood here once, hee o… Here the roots of a half-mile of t… Then the axemen came and the chips… Dynamite, wagons, and horses took… It would come hard now for this ha…
TWO Swede families live downstairs and an Irish policeman upstairs, and an old soldier, Uncle Joe. Two Swede boys go upstairs and see Joe. His wife is dead, his only son is dead, and ...
BY day the skyscraper looms in th… has a soul. Prairie and valley, streets of the… it and they mingle among its twent… poured out again back to the stree…
Into the blue river hills The red sun runners go And the long sand changes And to-day is a goner And to-day is not worth haggling o…
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…