#AmericanWriters
The murderer’s little daughter who is barely ten years old jerks her shoulders right and left so as to catch a glimpse of me
Little round moon up there—wait awhile—do not walk so quickly. I could sing you a song—: Wine clear the sky is and the stars no bigger than sparks! Wait for me and next winter we’ll bui...
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
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely
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…
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
Beloved you are Caviar of Caviar Of all I love you best O my Japanese bird nest No herring from Norway
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
Take it out in vile whisky, take i… in lifting your skirts to show you… crotches; it is this that is inten… You are it. Your pleas will alway… You too will always go up with the…
Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous