#AmericanWriters
A Milkweed Anonymous as cherubs Over the crib of God, White seeds are floating Out of my burst pod.
The horse beneath me seemed To know what course to steer Through the horror of snow I drea… And so I had no fear, Nor was I chilled to death
Right down the shocked street with… siren-blast That sends all else skittering to… curb, Redness, brass, ladders and hats h…
Dream fluently, still brothers, wh… Took with your mother’s milk the m… In which pure matrix, joining worl… You strove to leave some line of v… Like still fresh tracks across a f…
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…
A ball will bounce; but less and l… A light-hearted thing, resents its… Falling is what it loves, and the… So in our hearts from brilliance, Settles and is forgot.
Piecemeal the summer dies; At the field’s edge a daisy lives… A last shawl of burning lies On a gray field-stone. All cries are thin and terse;
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,
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…
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…
Securely sunning in a forest glade… A mild, well-meaning snake Approved the adaptations he had ma… For safety’s sake. He liked the skin he had—
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…
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…
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…
R.Frost 100th B’day The air was soft, the ground still… In wet dull pastures where I stro… Was something I could not believe… Dead grass appeared to slide and h…