#AmericanWriters
Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest
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...
Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, the waste of broad, muddy fields
If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…
As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right
The birches are mad with green poi… the wood’s edge is burning with th… burning, seething—No, no, no. The birches are opening their leav… by one. Their delicate leaves unfo…
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
While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
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…
It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.
Little round moon up there—wait awhile—do not walk so quickly. I could sing you a song—: Wine clear the sky is and the stars no bigger than sparks! Wait for me and next winter we’ll bui...
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.