(1923)
#AmericanWriters
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.
You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
This is a slight stiff dance to a waking baby whose arms have been lying curled back above his head upon the pillow, making a flower—the eyes closed. Dead to the world! Waking is a...
Even in the time when as yet I had no certain knowledge of her She sprang from the nest, a young… Whose first flight circled the for… I know now how then she showed me
The pure products of America go crazy— mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey
This horrible but superb painting the parable of the blind without a red in the composition shows a group of beggars leading
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which
A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…
I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…