#AmericanWriters
"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—
ALL those treasures that lie in t… Mightier than the room of the star… All those treasures—I hold them i… Against the sides and the lid and… Crying that there is no sun come a…
It is still warm enough to slip from the weeds into the lake’s edge, your clothes blushing in the grass and three small boys grinning behind the derelict hearth’s side. But summer...
Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on
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
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
Men with picked voices chant the n… of cities in a huge gallery: promi… that pull through descending stair… to a deep rumbling. The rubbing feet
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
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...
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