#AmericanWriters
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
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…
You Communists and Republicans! all you Germans and Frenchmen! you corpses and quickeners! The stars are about to melt and fall on you in tears.
This is a slight stiff dance to a waking baby whose arms have been lying curled back above his head upon the pillow, making a flower—the eyes closed. Dead to the world! Waking is a...
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
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…
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
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…
Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
It’s a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part!
The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,