#AmericanWriters
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
O—EH—lee! La—la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…
The grass is very green, my friend… and tousled, like the head of —— your grandson, yes? And the mounta… the mountain we climbed twenty years since for the last
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
The sky has given over its bitterness. Out of the dark change all day long rain falls and falls
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
Among of green stiff old
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, the waste of broad, muddy fields
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
Here it is spring again and I still a young man! I am late at my singing. The sparrow with the black rain on… has been at his cadenzas for two w…
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.
Lady of dusk-wood fastnesses, Thou art my Lady. I have known the crisp, splinterin… White, slender through green sapli… I have lain by thee on the brown f…