#AmericanWriters
When trouble comes your soul to tr… You love the friend who just “stan… Perhaps there’s nothing he can do’ The thing is strictly up to you; For there are troubles all your ow…
Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue
O’eh’lee! La’la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…
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.
My wife’s new pink slippers have gay pompons. There is not a spot or a stain on their satin toes or their sides… All night they lie together
Oh strong—ridged and deeply hollow… nose of mine! what will you not be… What tactless asses we are, you an… always indiscriminate, always unas… and now it is the souring flowers…
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing
This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which
When I am alone I am happy. The air is cool. The sky is flecked and splashed and wound with color. The crimson phalloi of the sassafras leaves
Not because of his eyes, the eyes of a bird, but because he is beaked, birdlike, to do an injury, has the turtle attracted you.