(1916)
#AmericanWriters
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for
When over the flowery, sharp pastu… edge, unseen, the salt ocean lifts its form—chicory and daisies tied, released, seem hardly flower… but color and the movement—or the…
Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue
Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
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…
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
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
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...
I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge
Among of green stiff old