#AmericanWriters
Now every leaf, though colorless,… With disembodied and celestial lig… And drops without a movement or a… A pillar of darkness to the shifti… The lucent, thin, and alcoholic fl…
Achilles Holt, Stanford, 1930 Here for a few short years Strengthen affections; meet, Later, the dull arrears Of age, and be discreet.
I could tell Of silence where One ran before Himself and fell Into silence
This is the terminal: the light Gives perfect vision, false and ha… The metal glitters, deep and brigh… Great planes are waiting in the ya… They are already in the night.
Where am I now? And what Am I to say portends? Death is but death, and not The most obtuse of ends. No matter how one leans
The night was faint and sheer; Immobile, road and dune. Then, for a moment, clear, A plane moved past the moon. O spirit cool and frail,
Amid the iris and the rose, The honeysuckle and the bay, The wild earth for a moment goes In dust or weed another way. Small though its corner be, the we…
The grandeur of deep afternoons, The pomp of haze on marble hills, Where every white-walled villa swo… Through violence that heat fulfill… Pass tirelessly and more alone
On the desert, between pale mounta… Far whispers creeping through an a… Coyote, on delicate mocking feet, Hovers down the canyon, among the… His voice running wild in the wind…
The spring has darkened with activ… The future gathers in vine, bush,… Persimmon, walnut, loquat, fig, an… Degrees and kinds of color, taste,… These will advance in their due se…
The branches, jointed, pointing up and out, shine out like brass. Upon the heavy
From the high terrace porch I wat… No light appears, though dark has… Sunk from the cold and monstrous s… Lie naked but not light. The dark… Down the remoter gulleys; pooled,…
Immeasurable haze: The desert valley spreads Up golden river-beds As if in other days. Trees rise and thin away,
You would extend the mind beyond t… Furious, bending, suffering in thi… And unpoetic dicta; you have been Forced by hypothesis to fiercer fa… As metal singing hard, with firmne…
The young are quick of speech. Grown middle-aged, I teach Corrosion and distrust, Exacting what I must. A poem is what stands