#AmericanWriters
I had no idea the elf owl Crept into you in the secret Of night. I have torn myself out of many bit… In America, that seemed
In the Shreve High football stadi… I think of Polacks nursing long b… And gray faces of Negroes in the… And the ruptured night watchman of… Dreaming of heroes.
It is all right. All they do Is go in by dividing One rib from another. I wouldn’t Lie to you. It hurts Like nothing I know. All they do
Deep into spring, winter is hanging on. Bitter and skillful in his hopelessness, he stays alive in every shady place, starving along the Mediterranean: angry to see the glittering sea-p...
Just off the highway to Rochester… Twilight bounds softly forth on th… And the eyes of those two Indian… Darken with kindness. They have come gladly out of the w…
Many animals that our fathers kill… Had quick eyes. They stared about wildly, When the moon went dark. The new moon falls into the freigh…
The moon drops one or two feathers… The dark wheat listens. Be still. Now. There they are, the moon’s young,…
It can’t be the passing of time th… That white shadow across the water… Just offshore. I shiver a little, with the evenin… I turn down the steep path to find
Relieved, I let the book fall beh… I climb a slight rise of grass. I do not want to disturb the ants Who are walking single file up the… Carrying small white petals,
I was only a young man In those days. On that evening The cold was so God damned Bitter there was nothing. Nothing. I was in trouble
Over my head, I see the bronze bu… Asleep on the black trunk, blowing like a leaf in green shado… Down the ravine behind the empty h… The cowbells follow one another
I am sitting contented and alone in a little park near the Palazzo Scaligere in Verona, glimpsing the mists of early autumn as they shift and fade among the pines and city battlements o...
The twilight falls; I soften the… And clean again. The house has lain and moldered fo… The windows smeared with rain, the… The mice come in,
Still, I would leap too Into the light, If I had the chance. It is everything, the wet green st…
And how can I, born in evil days And fresh from failure, ask a kind… —Written A.D. 819 Po Chu-i, balding old politician, What’s the use?