#AmericanWriters
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
The coroner’s merry little childre… Have such twinkling brown eyes. Their father is not of gay men And their mother jocular in no wis… Yet the coroner’s merry little chi…
I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge
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.
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
My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
I have discovered that most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see t… the domes of the Church of the Paulist Fathers in Weehawken
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good
When over the flowery, sharp pastu… edge, unseen, the salt ocean lifts its form—chicory and daisies tied, released, seem hardly flower… but color and the movement—or the…
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...
I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine
In this world of as fine a pair of breasts as ever I saw the fountain in Madison Square
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich