(1916)
#AmericanWriters
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
Here it is spring again and I still a young man! I am late at my singing. The sparrow with the black rain on… has been at his cadenzas for two w…
At ten AM the young housewife moves about in negligee behind the wooden walls of her husband’s… I pass solitary in my car. Then again she comes to the curb
I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter
a burst of iris so that come down for breakfast we searched through the rooms for
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
Among the rain and lights I saw the figure 5 in gold on a red
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,
Men with picked voices chant the n… of cities in a huge gallery: promi… that pull through descending stair… to a deep rumbling. The rubbing feet
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good
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
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn