#AmericanWriters
Poetry is the supreme fiction, mad… Take the moral law and make a nave… And from the nave build haunted he… The conscience is converted into p… Like windy citherns hankering for…
There it was, word for word, The poem that took the place of a… He breathed its oxygen, Even when the book lay turned in t… It reminded him how he had needed
There are great things doing In the world, Little rabbit. There is a damsel, Sweeter than the sound of the will…
Twenty men crossing a bridge, Into a village, Are twenty men crossing twenty bri… Into twenty villages, Or one man
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…
Although you sit in a room that is… Except for the silver Of the straw-paper, And pick At your pale white gown;
First Girl When this yokel comes maundering, Whetting his hacker, I shall run before him, Diffusing the civilest odors
It is grass. It is monotonous. The monotony Is like your port which conceals All your characters
She sang beyond the genius of the… The water never formed to mind or… Like a body wholly body, flutterin… Its empty sleeves; and yet its mim… Made constant cry, caused constant…
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…
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…
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,
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…
The lilacs wither in the Carolina… Already the butterflies flutter ab… Already the new-born children inte… In the voices of mothers. Timeless mothers,
It was the morn And the palms were waved And the brass was played Then the coroner came In his limpid shoes.