#AmericanWriters
THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—
unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line
Subtle, clever brain, wiser than… by what devious means do you contr… to remain idle? Teach me, O maste…
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
By constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children’s hair, the School Physician first brought their hatred down on him.
School is over. It is too hot to walk at ease. At ease in light frocks they walk the stre… to while the time away. They have grown tall. They hold
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…
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
The sky has given over its bitterness. Out of the dark change all day long rain falls and falls
O—EH—lee! La—la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
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 the field by force; the grass
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely
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
Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of