(1916)
#AmericanWriters
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
I lie here thinking of you:—— the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves,
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of
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…
The pure products of America go crazy— mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey
It is a satisfaction a joy to have one of those in the house. when she takes a bath
A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.
This horrible but superb painting the parable of the blind without a red in the composition shows a group of beggars leading
a burst of iris so that come down for breakfast we searched through the rooms for
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely