#AmericanWriters
A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing
NOW that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished mas… Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances,
I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine
A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest
I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow
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
A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.
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
This plot of ground facing the waters of this inlet is dedicated to the living presenc… Emily Dickinson Wellcome who was born in England; married;
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go