#AmericanWriters
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
This is a schoolyard crowded with children of all ages near a village on a small stream
Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of
The pure products of America go crazy— mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
O’eh’lee! La’la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
Love is twain, it is not single, Gold and silver mixed to one, Passion 'tis and pain which ming… Glist’ring then for aye undone. Pain it is not; wondering pity
Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on
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...
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…
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely
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.
Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire