#AmericanWriters
They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
Not because of his eyes, the eyes of a bird, but because he is beaked, birdlike, to do an injury, has the turtle attracted you.
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth—nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking thefield by force; the grass
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...
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—