#AmericanWriters
A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,
Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of
Here it is spring again and I still a young man! I am late at my singing. The sparrow with the black rain on… has been at his cadenzas for two w…
When I am alone I am happy. The air is cool. The sky is flecked and splashed and wound with color. The crimson phalloi of the sassafras leaves
I have had my dream—like others— and it has come to nothing, so tha… I remain now carelessly with feet planted on the ground and look up at the sky—
When the snow falls the flakes spi… that concerns them most intimately two and two to make a dance the mind dances with itself, taking you by the hand,
Even in the time when as yet I had no certain knowledge of her She sprang from the nest, a young… Whose first flight circled the for… I know now how then she showed me
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
This is a schoolyard crowded with children of all ages near a village on a small stream
Lady of dusk-wood fastnesses, Thou art my Lady. I have known the crisp, splinterin… White, slender through green sapli… I have lain by thee on the brown f…
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
Among of green stiff old