(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 thefield by force; the grass
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.
Lady of dusk-wood fastnesses, Thou art my Lady. I have known the crisp, splinterin… White, slender through green sapli… I have lain by thee on the brown f…
It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife—among her five children . . .
I’ve fond anticipation of a day O’erfilled with pure diversion pre… For I must read a lady poesy The while we glide by many a leafy… Hid deep in rushes, where at rando…
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely
Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—
Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am
Paterson lies in the valley under… its spent waters forming the outli… lies on his right side, head near… of the waters filling his dreams!… his dreams walk about the city whe…
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.
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, th… waste of broad, muddy fields
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night