(1916)
#AmericanWriters
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
I have discovered that most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see t… the domes of the Church of the Paulist Fathers in Weehawken
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices
Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous
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…
When trouble comes your soul to tr… You love the friend who just “stan… Perhaps there’s nothing he can do’ The thing is strictly up to you; For there are troubles all your ow…
Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely
Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees