(1916)
#AmericanWriters
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
O’eh’lee! La’la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
Not because of his eyes, the eyes of a bird, but because he is beaked, birdlike, to do an injury, has the turtle attracted you.
Love is twain, it is not single, Gold and silver mixed to one, Passion 'tis and pain which ming… Glist’ring then for aye undone. Pain it is not; wondering pity
You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
This is a slight stiff dance to a waking baby whose arms have been lying curled back above his head upon the pillow, making a flower—the eyes closed. Dead to the world! Waking is a...
NOW that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished mas… Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances,
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, th… waste of broad, muddy fields
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows