#AmericanWriters
Love is twain, it is not single, Gold and silver mixed to one, Passion 'tis and pain which ming… Glist’ring then for aye undone. Pain it is not; wondering pity
As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right
I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
I’ve fond anticipation of a day O’erfilled with pure diversion pre… For I must read a lady poesy The while we glide by many a leafy… Hid deep in rushes, where at rando…
It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.
Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely
A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing
"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
I gotta buy me a new girdle. (I’ll buy you one) O.K.
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...
The coroner’s merry little childre… Have such twinkling brown eyes. Their father is not of gay men And their mother jocular in no wis… Yet the coroner’s merry little chi…
At ten AM the young housewife moves about in negligee behind the wooden walls of her husband’s… I pass solitary in my car. Then again she comes to the curb
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field