#Activities #AmericanWriters #MoneyAndEconomics #SocialCommentaries
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
Subtle, clever brain, wiser than… by what devious means do you contr… to remain idle? Teach me, O maste…
The green-blue ground is ruled with silver lines to say the sun is shining And on this moral sea of grass or dreams lie flowers
I have had my dream—like others— and it has come to nothing, so tha… I remain now carelessly with feet planted on the ground and look up at the sky—
When the snow falls the flakes spi… that concerns them most intimately two and two to make a dance the mind dances with itself, taking you by the hand,
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
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...
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,…
An old willow with hollow branches slowly swayed his few high gright… and sang: Love is a young green willow shimmering at the bare wood’s edge…
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of