#AmericanWriters
contend in a sea which the land pa… shielding them from the too—heavy… of an ungoverned ocean which when… tortures the biggest hulls, the be… to pit against its beatings, and s…
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
The murderer’s little daughter who is barely ten years old jerks her shoulders right and left so as to catch a glimpse of me
My townspeople, beyond in the grea… are many with whom it were far mor… profitable for me to live than her… These whirr about me calling, call… and for my own part I answer them,…
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line
Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
Men with picked voices chant the n… of cities in a huge gallery: promi… that pull through descending stair… to a deep rumbling. The rubbing feet
While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor