(1916)
#AmericanWriters
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…
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
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,
The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow
The grass is very green, my friend… and tousled, like the head of —— your grandson, yes? And the mounta… the mountain we climbed twenty years since for the last
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—
They tell me on the morrow I must… This winter eyrie for a southern f… And truth to tell I tremble with… At thought of such unheralded repr… E’er have I known December in a w…
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
Not because of his eyes, the eyes of a bird, but because he is beaked, birdlike, to do an injury, has the turtle attracted you.
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail