#AmericanWriters
INTO the gulf and the pit of the dark night, the cold night, there is a man goes into the dark and the cold and when he comes back to his people he brings fire in his hands and they rem...
TAKE your fill of intimate remor… Over the dead child of a millionai… And the pity of Death refusing an… Which the millionaire might order… scratch off
I REMEMBER the Chillicothe ba… And the shoulders of the Chillico… And the umpire’s voice was hoarse…
THREE violins are trying their h… The piece is MacDowell’s Wild Ro… And the time of the wild rose And the leaves of the wild rose And the dew-shot eyes of the wild…
The mare Alix breaks the world’s trotting record one day. I see her heels flash down the dust of an Illinois race track on a summer afternoon. I see the timekeepers put their heads to...
ON the street Slung on his shoulder is a handle… Tied in a big knot on the scoop of… Are the overalls faded from sun an… Spatter of dry clay sticking yello…
YOUR bony head, Jazbo, O dock w… Those grappling hooks, those wheel… The dome and the wings of you, ***… The red roof and the door of you, I know where your songs came from.
In the loam we sleep, In the cool moist loam, To the lull of years that pass And the break of stars, From the loam, then,
I have been in Pennsylvania, In the Monongahela and Hocking V… In the blue Susquehanna On a Saturday morning I saw a mounted constabulary go by…
ROSES and gold For you today, And the flash of flying flags. I will have Ashes,
(March, 1919)A LIAR goes in fin… A liar goes in rags. A liar is a liar, clothes or no cl… A liar is a liar and lives on the… And the stonecutters earn a living…
ONCE when I saw a cripple Gasping slowly his last days with… Looking from hollow eyes, calling… Desperately gesturing with wasted… In the dark and dust of a house do…
The voice of the last cricket across the first frost is one kind of good-by. It is so thin a splinter of singin…
And so to-day—they lay him away— the boy nobody knows the name of– the buck private—the unknown soldi… the doughboy who dug under and die… when they told him to– that’s him.
I WANDER down on Clinton stree… And listen to the voices of Itali… It is a cataract of coloratura And I could sleep to their musica…