#AmericanWriters
The old moon is tarnished With smoke of the flood, The dead leaves are varnished With colour like blood. A treacherous smiler
This is the bricklayer; hear the t… Of his heavy load dumped down on s… His lustrous bricks are brighter t… His smoking mortar whiter than bon… Set each sharp-edged, fire-bitten…
The rain’s cold grains are silver-… Sharp as golden sands, A bell is clanging, people sway Hanging by their hands. Supple hands, or gnarled and stiff…
Too high, too high to pluck My heart shall swing. A fruit no bee shall suck, No wasp shall sting. If on some night of cold
She has danced for leagues and lea… Over thorns and thistles, Prancing to a tune of Griegg’s Performed on willow whistles. Antelopes behold her, dazed,
Sleep falls, with limpid drops of… Upon the steep cliffs of the town. Sleep falls; men are at peace agai… While the small drops fall softly… The bright drops ring like bells o…
You are a rose, but set with sharp… You are a pretty bird that pecks a… You are a little squirrel on a tre… Pelting me with the prickly fruit… A diamond, torn from a crystal min…
If we must cheat ourselves with an… Then let it be a dream of noblenes… Since it is necessary to express Gall from black grapes—to sew an e… With a rusty needle—chase a spurio…
When against earth a wooden heel Clicks as loud as stone on steel, When stone turns flour instead of… And frost bakes clay as fire bakes… When the hard-bitten fields at las…
Liza, go steep your long white han… In the cool waters of that spring Which bubbles up through shiny san… The colour of a wild-dove’s wing. Dabble your hands, and steep them…
First Traveller: What’s that lyin… Second Traveller: A crooked stick… First Traveller: What’s it worth,… Second Traveller: Isn’t this a ri… First Traveller: No, a trick.
When foxes eat the last gold grape… And the last white antelope is kil… I shall stop fighting and escape Into a little house I’ll build. But first I’ll shrink to fairy si…
The Hielan’ lassies are a’ for sp… The Lowlan’ lassies for prinkin’… My daddie w’u’d chide me, an’ so w… If I s’u’d bring hame sic a prink… Now haud your tongue, ye haverin’…
Once, when my husband was a child,… To his father’s table, one who cal… In sunbleached corduroys paler tha… His look was grave and kind; he bo… Of the dead singer of Senlac, and…
Why should this Negro insolently… Down the red noonday on such noise… Piled in his barrow, tawnier than… Lie heaps of smouldering daisies,… Their copper petals shriveled up w…