#Americans
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…
PLAY it across the table. What if we steal this city blind? If they want any thing let 'em nai… Harness bulls, dicks, front office… And the high goats up on the bench…
IT is something to face the sun and know you are free. To hold your head in the shafts of daylight slanting the earth And know your heart has kept a promise and the blood runs clean: To...
I SHALL foot it Down the roadway in the dusk, Where shapes of hunger wander And the fugitives of pain go by. I shall foot it
LAST night a January wind was ri… over our house and whistling a wol… eaves. I sat in a leather rocker and read… the Browning poem, Childe Roland…
THERE are no handles upon a lang… Whereby men take hold of it And mark it with signs for its rem… It is a river, this language, Once in a thousand years
The voice of the last cricket across the first frost is one kind of good-by. It is so thin a splinter of singin…
You come along. . . tearing your s… Jesus. Where do you get that stuff? What do you know about Jesus? Jesus had a way of talking soft an…
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.
LAY me on an anvil, O God. Beat me and hammer me into a crowb… Let me pry loose old walls. Let me lift and loosen old foundat… Lay me on an anvil, O God.
AM I the river your white birds f… Are you the green valley my silver… The two of us a bowl of blue sky d… Who picked you out of the first great whirl of no…
There is a wolf in me . . . fangs… tongue for raw meat. . . and the h… this wolf because the wilderness g… will not let it go. There is a fox in me. . . a silver…
A MILLION young workmen straight and strong lay stiff on the grass and roads, And the million are now under soil and their rottening flesh will in the years feed roots of blood-red ro...
I AM the nigger. Singer of songs, Dancer. . . Softer than fluff of cotton. . . Harder than dark earth
Not exactly the spinning circles of singing golden spiders, Not exactly this have they got at nor the meaning of flowers—O flowers, flowers slung by a dancing girl—in the saddest play t...