#AmericanWriters
A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing
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
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
The grass is very green, my friend… and tousled, like the head of —— your grandson, yes? And the mounta… the mountain we climbed twenty years since for the last
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
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, th… waste of broad, muddy fields
Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
A day on the boulevards chosen out… student poverty! One best day out… Berket in high spirits—"Ha, orang… And he made to snatch an orange fr… Now so clever was the deception, s…
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices
It’s a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part!
O’eh’lee! La’la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…