#AmericanWriters
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
ALL those treasures that lie in t… Mightier than the room of the star… All those treasures—I hold them i… Against the sides and the lid and… Crying that there is no sun come a…
SOFT as the bed in the earth Where a stone has lain— So soft, so smooth and so cool, Spring closes me in With her arms and her hands.
Here it is spring again and I still a young man! I am late at my singing. The sparrow with the black rain on… has been at his cadenzas for two w…
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!
As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses
"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—
Among the rain and lights I saw the figure 5 in gold on a red
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.
It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife—among her five children . . .