#AmericanWriters
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
This is a schoolyard crowded with children of all ages near a village on a small stream
Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
Constantly near you, I never in m… sixty-four years knew you so well… or half so well. We talked. you we… so lucid, so disengaged from all e… of place and time. We talked of ou…
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
If a man can say of his life or any moment of his life, There is nothing more to be desired! his st… becomes like that told in the famo… double sonnet—but without the
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
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
The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
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.
Subtle, clever brain, wiser than… by what devious means do you contr… to remain idle? Teach me, O maste…
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