#AmericanWriters
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
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
One leaves his leaves at home beomg a mullen and sends up a ligh… to peer from: I will have my way, yellow—A mast with a lantern, ten fifty, a hundred, smaller and smal…
It is a satisfaction a joy to have one of those in the house. when she takes a bath
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
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…
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
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
When the snow falls the flakes spi… that concerns them most intimately two and two to make a dance the mind dances with itself, taking you by the hand,
O’eh’lee! La’la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves