#AmericanWriters
Only until this cigarette is ended… A little moment at the end of all, While on the floor the quiet ashes… And in the firelight to a lance ex… Bizarrely with the jazzing music b…
Butterflies are white and blue In this field we wander through. Suffer me to take your hand. Death comes in a day or two. All the things we ever knew
My heart is what it was before, A house where people come and go; But it is winter with your love, The sashes are beset with snow. I light the lamp and lay the cloth…
I know what my heart is like Since your love died: It is like a hollow ledge Holding a little pool Left there by the tide,
Into the golden vessel of great so… Let us pour all our passion; breas… Let other lovers lie, in love and… Not we,—articulate, so, but with t… Of all the world: the churning blo…
Let you not say of me when I am o… In pretty worship of my withered h… Forgetting who I am, and how the… Of such a life as mine run red and… Even to the ultimate sifting dust,…
I dreamed I moved among the Elysi… In converse with sweet women long… And out of blossoms which that mea… I wove a garland for your living h… Danai, that was the vessel for a d…
Strong sun, that bleach The curtains of my room, can you n… Colourless this dress I wear?— This violent plaid Of purple angers and red shames; t…
Be to her, Persephone, All the things I might not be: Take her head upon your knee. She that was so proud and wild, Flippant, arrogant and free,
Detestable race, continue to expun… Breed faster, crowd, encroach, sin… Make speeches, unveil statues, iss… Convert again into explosives the… Convert again into putrescent matt…
To what purpose, April, do you re… Beauty is not enough. You can no longer quiet me with th… Of little leaves opening stickily. I know what I know.
If it were only still!— With far away the shrill Crying of a cock; Or the shaken bell From a cow’s throat
I know I am but summer to your he… And not the full four seasons of t… And you must welcome from another… Such noble moods as are not mine,… No gracious weight of golden fruit…
Spring rides no horses down the hi… But comes on foot, a goose-girl st… And all the loveliest things there… Come simply, so, it seems to me. If ever I said, in grief or pride…
Ho, Giant! This is I! I have built me a bean-stalk into… La,—but it’s lovely, up so high! This is how I came,—I put Here my knee, there my foot,