#AmericanWriters
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
I lie here thinking of you:—— the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves,
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
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
I will teach you my towns… how to perform a funeral… for you have it over a tr… of artists— unless one should scour t…
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
There were some dirty plates and a glass of milk beside her on a small table near the rank, disheveled bed— Wrinkled and nearly blind
You know there is not much that I desire, a few chrysanthemum… half lying on the grass, yellow and brown and white, the talk of a few people, the trees,
This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with
It is a satisfaction a joy to have one of those in the house. when she takes a bath
beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and
Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth—nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking thefield by force; the grass
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…
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge