(1916)
#AmericanWriters
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 the field by force; the grass
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,
This is a schoolyard crowded with children of all ages near a village on a small stream
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
a burst of iris so that come down for breakfast we searched through the rooms for
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—
My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.
If a man can say of his life or any moment of his life, There is nothing more to be desired! his st… becomes like that told in the famo… double sonnet—but without the
Take it out in vile whisky, take i… in lifting your skirts to show you… crotches; it is this that is inten… You are it. Your pleas will alway… You too will always go up with the…
It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.
beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
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...
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge