#AmericanWriters
I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge
It is still warm enough to slip from the weeds into the lake’s edge, your clothes blushing in the grass and three small boys grinning behind the derelict hearth’s side. But summer...
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
I have discovered that most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see t… the domes of the Church of the Paulist Fathers in Weehawken
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
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,
It is a satisfaction a joy to have one of those in the house. when she takes a bath
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing
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.
When over the flowery, sharp pastu… edge, unseen, the salt ocean lifts its form—chicory and daisies tied, released, seem hardly flower… but color and the movement—or the…
The green-blue ground is ruled with silver lines to say the sun is shining And on this moral sea of grass or dreams lie flowers
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
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
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night