#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…
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of
In Brueghel’s great picture, The… the dancers go round, they go roun… around, the squeal and the blare a… tweedle of bagpipes, a bugle and f… tipping their bellies (round as th…
It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
I have had my dream—like others— and it has come to nothing, so tha… I remain now carelessly with feet planted on the ground and look up at the sky—
SOFT as the bed in the earth Where a stone has lain— So soft, so smooth and so cool, Spring closes me in With her arms and her hands.
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
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