#AmericanWriters
The birches are mad with green poi… the wood’s edge is burning with th… burning, seething—No, no, no. The birches are opening their leav… by one. Their delicate leaves unfo…
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
It is a satisfaction a joy to have one of those in the house. when she takes a bath
I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
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…
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
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…
They tell me on the morrow I must… This winter eyrie for a southern f… And truth to tell I tremble with… At thought of such unheralded repr… E’er have I known December in a w…
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on
I will teach you my towns… how to perform a funeral… for you have it over a tr… of artists— unless one should scour t…
THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—
It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife—among her five children . . .