(1923)
#AmericanWriters
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,
I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter
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.
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
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,
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…
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
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
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,
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
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge