#AmericanWriters #FreeVerse
It is still warm enough to slip from the weeds into the lake’s edge, your clothes blushing in the grass and three small boys grinning behind the derelict hearth’s side. But summer...
One leaves his leaves at home beomg a mullen and sends up a ligh… to peer from: I will have my way, yellow—A mast with a lantern, ten fifty, a hundred, smaller and smal…
They tell me on the morrow I must… This winter eyrie for a southern f… And truth to tell I tremble with… At thought of such unheralded repr… E’er have I known December in a w…
I’ve fond anticipation of a day O’erfilled with pure diversion pre… For I must read a lady poesy The while we glide by many a leafy… Hid deep in rushes, where at rando…
I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
Oh strong—ridged and deeply hollow… nose of mine! what will you not be… What tactless asses we are, you an… always indiscriminate, always unas… and now it is the souring flowers…
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices
A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing
Go to sleep—though of course you w… to tideless waves thundering slant… strong embankments, rattle and swi… dashed thirty feet high, caught by… scattered and strewn broadcast in…
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good
Among of green stiff old
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous