#AmericanWriters
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,
The pure products of America go crazy— mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey
I lie here thinking of you:—— the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves,
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,
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
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
I’ve fond anticipation of a day O’erfilled with pure diversion pre… For I must read a lady poesy The while we glide by many a leafy… Hid deep in rushes, where at rando…
Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…
I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge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