#AmericanWriters
Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,
THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
It is a satisfaction a joy to have one of those in the house. when she takes a bath
Beloved you are Caviar of Caviar Of all I love you best O my Japanese bird nest No herring from Norway
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.
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
By constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children’s hair, the School Physician first brought their hatred down on him.
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right
I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire