#AmericanWriters
I advocate a semi-revolution. The trouble with a total revolutio… (Ask any reputable Rosicrucian) Is that it brings the same class u… Executives of skillful execution
EVEN the bravest that are slain Shall not dissemble their surprise On waking to find valor reign, Even as on earth, in paradise; And where they sought without the…
We saw leaves go to glory, Then almost migratory Go part way down the lane, And then to end the story Get beaten down and pasted
I felt the chill of the meadow und… But the sun overhead; And snatches of verse and song of… I sung or said. I skirted the margin alders for mi…
I have been treading on leaves all… God knows all the color and form o… Perhaps I have put forth too much… I have safely trodden underfoot th… All summer long they were over hea…
A neighbor of mine in the village Likes to tell how one spring When she was a girl on the farm, s… A childlike thing. One day she asked her father
The old dog barks backwards withou… I can remember when he was a pup.
A governor it was proclaimed this… When all who would come seeking in… Ancestral memories might come toge… And those of the name Stark gathe… A rock-strewn town where farming h…
A house that lacks, seemingly, mis… With doors that none but the wind… Its floor all littered with glass… It stands in a garden of old-fashi… I pass by that way in the gloaming…
One misty evening, one another’s g… We two were groping down a Malver… The last wet fields and dripping h… There came a moment of confusing l… Such as according to belief in Ro…
I had withdrawn in forest, and my… Was swallowed up in leaves that bl… And to the forest edge you came on… (This was my dream) and looked and… But did not enter, though the wish…
A winter garden in an alder swamp, Where conies now come out to sun a… As near a paradise as it can be And not melt snow or start a dorma… It lifts existence on a plane of s…
Abstraction is an old story with the philosophers, but it has been like a new toy in the hands of the artists of our day. Why can’t we have any one quality of poetry we choose by itself...
(To hear us talk) The tree the tempest with a crash… Throws down in front of us is not… Our passage to our journey’s end f… But just to ask us who we think we…
There’s a patch of old snow in a c… That I should have guessed Was a blow—away paper the rain Had brought to rest. It is speckled with grime as if