#AmericanWriters
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right
I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
In this world of as fine a pair of breasts as ever I saw the fountain in Madison Square
O’eh’lee! La’la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest
A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which
They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.
Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
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…