#AmericanWriters
There were ghosts that returned to… As he sat there reading, aloud, th… They were those from the wildernes… There were those that returned to… Of the pans above the stove, the p…
Poetry is the supreme fiction, mad… Take the moral law and make a nave… And from the nave build haunted he… The conscience is converted into p… Like windy citherns hankering for…
There it was, word for word, The poem that took the place of a… He breathed its oxygen, Even when the book lay turned in t… It reminded him how he had needed
Ariel was glad he had written his… They were of a remembered time Or of something seen that he liked… Other makings of the sun Were waste and welter
She sang beyond the genius of the… The water never formed to mind or… Like a body wholly body, flutterin… Its empty sleeves; and yet its mim… Made constant cry, caused constant…
Life contracts and death is expect… As in season of autumn. The soldier falls. He does not become a three-days pe… Imposing his separation,
What syllable are you seeking, Vocalissimus, In the distances of sleep? Speak it.
An old man sits In the shadow of a pine tree In China. He sees larkspur, Blue and white,
My candle burned alone in an immen… Beams of the huge night converged… Until the wind blew. The beams of the huge night Converged upon its image,
The poem must resist the intellige… Almost successfully. Illustration… A brune figure in winter evening r… Identity. The thing he carries re… The most necessitous sense. Accep…
“Mother of heaven, regina of the c… O sceptre of the sun, crown of the… There is not nothing, no, no, neve… Like the clashed edges of two word… And so I mocked her in magnificen…
Go on, high ship, since now, upon… The snake has left its skin upon t… Key West sank downward under mass… And silvers and greens spread over… Is at the mast-head and the past i…
Napoleon shifted Restless in the old sarcophagus And murmured to a watchguard: “Who goes there?” “Twenty-one million men,
Just as my fingers on these keys Make music, so the self-same sound… On my spirit make a music, too. Music is feeling, then, not sound; And thus it is that what I feel,