#AmericanWriters
Kick at the rock, Sam Johnson, br… But cloudy, cloudy is the stuff of… II. We milk the cow of the world, and… We whisper in her ear, ‘You are n…
for Rene Magritte The carpenter’s made a hole In the parlor floor, and I’m stan… Staring down into it now At four o’clock in the evening,
Blow out the candles of your cake. They will not leave you in the dar… Who round with grace this dusky ar… Of the grand tour which souls must… You who have sounded William Blak…
It’s not the case, though some mig… Who from a window watch the blizza… White riot through their branches… That they keep snug beneath their… They take affliction in until it j…
The eyelids meet. He’ll catch a l… The grizzled, crew-cut head drops… It shakes above the briefcase on h… Close voices breathe, “Poor sweet… “Poor sweet, poor sweet,” the bird…
At the end a “The Prisoner of Zenda,” The King being out of danger, Stewart Granger (As Rudolph Rassendyll)
Sidling upon the river, the white… Has volleyed with its cannon all t… Shaken the shore towns like a Jud… Telling the palsied water its dema… That the crime come to the top aga…
That flower unseen, that gem of pu… Bright thoughts uncut by men: Strange that you need but speak th… And the mind skips and dives beyon… Finding at once the wild supposed…
It is a cramped little state with… Save to be thought inoffensive. T… Has never been fathomed, owing to… Of allowing each sentence to trail… Those who have visited Scusi, the…
The good gray guardians of art Patrol the halls on spongy shoes, Impartially protective, though Perhaps suspicious of Toulouse. Here dozes one against the wall,
For Alexander there was no Far E… Because he thought the Asian cont… India ended. Free Cathay at least Did not contribute to his disconte… But Newton, who had grasped all s…
Sometimes, on waking, she would cl… For a last look at that white hous… In sleep alone, and held no title… And had not entered yet, for all h… What did she tell me of that house…
The tall camels of the spirit Steer for their deserts, passing t… With the sawmill shrill of the loc… arid Sun. They are slow, proud,
Shall I love God for causing me t… I was mere utterance; shall these… Yet when I caused His work to jar… And one free subject loosened all… I love Him that He did not in a r…
In her room at the prow of the hou… Where light breaks, and the window… My daughter is writing a story. I pause in the stairwell, hearing From her shut door a commotion of…