#AmericanWriters
Ariel was glad he had written his… They were of a remembered time Or of something seen that he liked… Other makings of the sun Were waste and welter
Although you sit in a room that is… Except for the silver Of the straw-paper, And pick At your pale white gown;
There were ghosts that returned to… As he sat there reading, aloud, th… They were those from the wildernes… There were those that returned to… Of the pans above the stove, the p…
Barque of phosphor On the palmy beach, Move outward into heaven, Into the alabasters And night blues.
As the immense dew of Florida Brings forth The big-finned palm And green vine angering for life, As the immense dew of Florida
It was the morn And the palms were waved And the brass was played Then the coroner came In his limpid shoes.
Among the more irritating minor id… Of Mr. Homburg during his visits… To Concord, at the edge of things… To think away the grass, the trees… Not to transform them into other t…
Granted, we die for good. Life, then, is largely a thing Of happens to like, not should. And that, too, granted, why Do I happen to like red bush,
The old brown hen and the old blue… Between the two we live and die— The broken cartwheel on the hill. As if, in the presence of the sea, We dried our nets and mended sail
At night, by the fire, The colors of the bushes And of the fallen leaves, Repeating themselves, Turned in the room,
First Girl When this yokel comes maundering, Whetting his hacker, I shall run before him, Diffusing the civilest odors
An old man sits In the shadow of a pine tree In China. He sees larkspur, Blue and white,
That’s what misery is, Nothing to have at heart. It is to have or nothing. It is a thing to have, A lion, an ox in his breast,
One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-trees crusted with sno… And have been cold a long time To behold the junipers shagged wit…