#AmericanWriters
Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely
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.
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
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...
beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!
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—
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter