#AmericanWriters
My candle burned alone in an immen… Beams of the huge night converged… Until the wind blew. The beams of the huge night Converged upon its image,
The poem must resist the intellige… Almost successfully. Illustration… A brune figure in winter evening r… Identity. The thing he carries re… The most necessitous sense. Accep…
To sing jubilas at exact, accustom… To be crested and wear the mane of… And so, as part, to exult with its… To speak of joy and to sing of it,… The shoulders of joyous men, to fe…
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
One’s grand flights, one’s Sunday… One’s tootings at the weddings of… Occur as they occur. So bluish cl… Occurred above the empty house and… Of the rhododendrons rattled their…
The difficulty to think at the end… When the shapeless shadow covers t… And nothing is left except light o… There was the cat slopping its mil… Fat cat, red tongue, green mind, w…
There’s a little square in Paris, Waiting until we pass. They sit idly there, They sip the glass. There’s a cab-horse at the corner,
A sunny day’s complete Poussinian… Divide it from itself. It is this… And it is not. By metaphor you paint A thing. Thus, the pineapple was…
The house was quiet and the world… The reader became the book; and su… Was like the conscious being of th… The house was quiet and the world… The words were spoken as if there…
I placed a jar in Tennessee, And round it was, upon a hill. It made the slovenly wilderness Surround that hill. The wilderness rose up to it,
You dweller in the dark cabin, To whom the watermelon is always p… Whose garden is wind and moon, Of the two dreams, night and day, What lover, what dreamer, would ch…
Not less because in purple I desc… The western day through what you c… The loneliest air, not less was I… What was the ointment sprinkled on… What were the hymns that buzzed be…
In my room, the world is beyond my… But when I walk I see that it con… hills and a cloud. From my balcony, I survey the yel… Reading where I have written,
he moon is the mother of pathos an… When, at the wearier end of Novem… Her old light moves along the bran… Feebly, slowly, depending upon the… When the body of Jesus hangs in a…