(1916)
#AmericanWriters
"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—
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...
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.
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
I gotta buy me a new girdle. (I’ll buy you one) O.K.
This horrible but superb painting the parable of the blind without a red in the composition shows a group of beggars leading
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...
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
The green-blue ground is ruled with silver lines to say the sun is shining And on this moral sea of grass or dreams lie flowers
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…
Among of green stiff old