(1923)
#AmericanWriters
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
I’ve fond anticipation of a day O’erfilled with pure diversion pre… For I must read a lady poesy The while we glide by many a leafy… Hid deep in rushes, where at rando…
There were some dirty plates and a glass of milk beside her on a small table near the rank, disheveled bed— Wrinkled and nearly blind
I have discovered that most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see t… the domes of the Church of the Paulist Fathers in Weehawken
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
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...
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
When trouble comes your soul to tr… You love the friend who just “stan… Perhaps there’s nothing he can do’ The thing is strictly up to you; For there are troubles all your ow…
Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!
Well, Lizzie Anderson! seventeen… the baby hard to find a father for… What will the good Father in Heav… to the local judge if he do not so… A little two-pointed smile and—pou…
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.
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
The pure products of America go crazy— mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth—nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking thefield by force; the grass