#AmericanWriters
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
The grass is very green, my friend… and tousled, like the head of —— your grandson, yes? And the mounta… the mountain we climbed twenty years since for the last
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
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and
a burst of iris so that come down for breakfast we searched through the rooms for
Little round moon up there—wait awhile—do not walk so quickly. I could sing you a song—: Wine clear the sky is and the stars no bigger than sparks! Wait for me and next winter we’ll bui...
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
I’ve fond anticipation of a day O’erfilled with pure diversion pre… For I must read a lady poesy The while we glide by many a leafy… Hid deep in rushes, where at rando…
As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
Here it is spring again and I still a young man! I am late at my singing. The sparrow with the black rain on… has been at his cadenzas for two w…
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail