#AmericanWriters
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
In Brueghel’s great picture, The… the dancers go round, they go roun… around, the squeal and the blare a… tweedle of bagpipes, a bugle and f… tipping their bellies (round as th…
Well, Lizzie Anderson! seventeen… the baby hard to find a father for… What will the good Father in Heav… to the local judge if he do not so… A little two-pointed smile and—pou…
Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!
A day on the boulevards chosen out… student poverty! One best day out… Berket in high spirits—"Ha, orang… And he made to snatch an orange fr… Now so clever was the deception, s…
The murderer’s little daughter who is barely ten years old jerks her shoulders right and left so as to catch a glimpse of me
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
At ten AM the young housewife moves about in negligee behind the wooden walls of her husband’s… I pass solitary in my car. Then again she comes to the curb
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