#AmericanWriters
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
If a man can say of his life or any moment of his life, There is nothing more to be desired! his st… becomes like that told in the famo… double sonnet—but without the
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
There were some dirty plates and a glass of milk beside her on a small table near the rank, disheveled bed— Wrinkled and nearly blind
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—
It is a satisfaction a joy to have one of those in the house. when she takes a bath
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with
When the snow falls the flakes spi… that concerns them most intimately two and two to make a dance the mind dances with itself, taking you by the hand,
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
The pure products of America go crazy— mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey
Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest
A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…
This particular thing, whether it be four pinches of four divers white powders cleverly compounded to cure surely, safely, pleasantly a painful twitching of the eyelids or say a pe...