#AmericanWriters
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
In this world of as fine a pair of breasts as ever I saw the fountain in Madison Square
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
One leaves his leaves at home beomg a mullen and sends up a ligh… to peer from: I will have my way, yellow—A mast with a lantern, ten fifty, a hundred, smaller and smal…
The sky has given over its bitterness. Out of the dark change all day long rain falls and falls
unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line
They tell me on the morrow I must… This winter eyrie for a southern f… And truth to tell I tremble with… At thought of such unheralded repr… E’er have I known December in a w…
My townspeople, beyond in the grea… are many with whom it were far mor… profitable for me to live than her… These whirr about me calling, call… and for my own part I answer them,…
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
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—
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang