#Americans #Suicide #1923 #Ballad #ThreeStoriesAndTenPoems
In the rain in the rain in the rai… Does it rain in Spain? Oh yes my dear on the contrary and… The dancers dance in long white pa… It isn’t right to yence your aunts
The age demanded that we sing And cut away our tongue. The age demanded that we flow And hammered in the bung. The age demanded that we dance
I like Canadians. They are so unlike Americans. They go home at night. Their cigarettes don’t smell bad. Their hats fit.
Men went happily to death But they were not the men Who marched For years Up to the line.
Outside, the snow was higher than the window. The sunlight came in through the window and shone on a map on the pine-board wall of the hut. The sun was high and the light came in over t...
The sea desires deep hulls— It swells and rolls. The screw churns a throb— Driving, throbbing, progressing. The sea rolls with love
We were in a garden at Mons. Young Buckley came in with his patrol from across the river. The first German I saw climbed up over the garden wall. We waited till he got one leg over and ...
They shot the six cabinet ministers at half-past six in the morning against the wall of a hospital. There were pools of water in the courtyard. There were wet dead leaves on the paving ...
I guess looking at it now my old man was cut out for a fat guy, one of those regular little roly fat guys you see around, but he sure never got that way, except a little toward the last...
Minarets stuck up in the rain out of Adrianople across the mud flats. The carts were jammed for thirty miles along the Karagatch road. Water buffalo and cattle were hauling carts throug...
Workingmen believed He busted trusts, And put his picture in their windo… ‘What he’d have done in France!’ They said.
Some came in chains Unrepentant but tired. Too tired but to stumble. Thinking and hating were finished Thinking and fighting were finishe…
After one Fourth of July, Nick, driving home late from town in the big wagon with Joe Garner and his family, passed nine drunken Indians along the road. He remembered there were nine be...
All of the Indians are dead (a good Indian is a dead Indian) Or riding in motor cars— (the oil lands, you know, they’re… Smoke smarts my eyes,
Three Roman soldiers are in a drinking-place at eleven o’clock at night. There are barrels around the wall. Behind the wooden counter is a Hebrew wine-seller. The three Roman soldiers a...