#AmericanWriters
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
Why pretend to remember the weather two years back? Why not? Listen close then repeat after others what they have just said and win a reputation for vivacity. Oh feed upon petals o...
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses
A day on the boulevards chosen out… student poverty! One best day out… Berket in high spirits—"Ha, orang… And he made to snatch an orange fr… Now so clever was the deception, s…
By constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children’s hair, the School Physician first brought their hatred down on him.
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
I have had my dream—like others— and it has come to nothing, so tha… I remain now carelessly with feet planted on the ground and look up at the sky—
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow
You know there is not much that I desire, a few chrysanthemum… half lying on the grass, yellow and brown and white, the talk of a few people, the trees,
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...
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.
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
SOFT as the bed in the earth Where a stone has lain— So soft, so smooth and so cool, Spring closes me in With her arms and her hands.