#AmericanWriters
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
When I am alone I am happy. The air is cool. The sky is flecked and splashed and wound with color. The crimson phalloi of the sassafras leaves
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.
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.
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
Go to sleep—though of course you w… to tideless waves thundering slant… strong embankments, rattle and swi… dashed thirty feet high, caught by… scattered and strewn broadcast in…
Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
There were some dirty plates and a glass of milk beside her on a small table near the rank, disheveled bed— Wrinkled and nearly blind
Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of
Among the rain and lights I saw the figure 5 in gold on a red