(1916)
#AmericanWriters
Here it is spring again and I still a young man! I am late at my singing. The sparrow with the black rain on… has been at his cadenzas for two w…
THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
School is over. It is too hot to walk at ease. At ease in light frocks they walk the stre… to while the time away. They have grown tall. They hold
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, the waste of broad, muddy fields
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 . . .
"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—
Love is twain, it is not single, Gold and silver mixed to one, Passion 'tis and pain which ming… Glist’ring then for aye undone. Pain it is not; wondering pity
Men with picked voices chant the n… of cities in a huge gallery: promi… that pull through descending stair… to a deep rumbling. The rubbing feet
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The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire