(1923)
#AmericanWriters
unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
My townspeople, beyond in the grea… are many with whom it were far mor… profitable for me to live than her… These whirr about me calling, call… and for my own part I answer them,…
Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely
Oh strong—ridged and deeply hollow… nose of mine! what will you not be… What tactless asses we are, you an… always indiscriminate, always unas… and now it is the souring flowers…
Among the rain and lights I saw the figure 5 in gold on a red
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 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.
Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, the waste of broad, muddy fields
In this world of as fine a pair of breasts as ever I saw the fountain in Madison Square