#AmericanWriters
A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.
Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
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…
Lady of dusk-wood fastnesses, Thou art my Lady. I have known the crisp, splinterin… White, slender through green sapli… I have lain by thee on the brown f…
I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine
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.
An old willow with hollow branches slowly swayed his few high gright… and sang: Love is a young green willow shimmering at the bare wood’s edge…
The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie