(1916)
#AmericanWriters
The brutal Lord of All will rip us from each other—leave the one to suffer here alone. No need belief in god or hell to postulate that much. The dance: hands touching, leaves touch...
All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among
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,…
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 . . .
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
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.
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
Little round moon up there—wait awhile—do not walk so quickly. I could sing you a song—: Wine clear the sky is and the stars no bigger than sparks! Wait for me and next winter we’ll bui...
They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good
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...
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves